


That Which is Called Madness

by Reneehart



Series: A Danger to Himself and Others [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Basically mental health is a constant theme, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Sexual Abuse, Consensual Sex, Consensual Underage Relationship, Dark Will Graham, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Hannibal AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Suicide, Not between pairing, Though this story leads to a romantic pairing with Hannibal/Will it is not sexual, Underage Drinking, Will is 16 and sees Hannibal for therapy, Will proves to be a lot more intuitive to Hannibal's nature and uses that to his advantage, mentions of self harm, not shown or explicitly described, self-care, tags added as i think of them, where the comfort part is murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 178,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: “I know what you are, and I have proof,” Will said, swallowing thickly at something lodged in his throat. Fear, most likely. But perhaps something else. Perhaps the delightful feeling of his heart in his throat and the taste of power making saliva pool behind his teeth. “I’ve been following you. And I’ve got pictures.”“I’m afraid I’m not certain what you’re referring to, though it is highly inappropriate for you to be stalking your psychiatrist,” Hannibal said, his words cool as he brushed a hand aside to straighten his files, concealing the brush of his fingers to a scalpel.“Yes, you do. But I’m not going to turn you in. I’m telling you this so you’ll help me. I have someone I want you to kill.” His hands slid over his desk, away from the scalpel.Or, Hannibal takes on a new patient, sixteen year old Will Graham who struggles with violent fantasies.COMPLETED.
Relationships: Matthew Brown/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, but only on the side
Series: A Danger to Himself and Others [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856773
Comments: 1097
Kudos: 1471





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings (Contains mild spoilers, if you heed the tags and are not concerned by them and would like to keep the story a surprise, please skip this note. If you would like more detail at the risk of learning some plot points, here it is): This story contains an underage relationship, wherein Will is 16 and Hannibal is his age as depicted in canon. This is not an endorsement of such, nor is any other aspect of their relationship. It goes without saying that this ship is not a healthy one, and the power imbalance is heavily skewed. There will be sexually explicit content. This story contains sexual child abuse. It is not explicitly shown, though is described in sparse details by Will, the survivor of the abuse. This warning is in regards to nonconsensual rape with a character other than Hannibal. Despite falling into the legal definition of rape, in this story Will and Hannibal’s relationship is consensual and separate from the one referenced in the non-con tag. Finally, there will be scenes of canon typical violence and torture, and cannibalism.
> 
> UPDATED NOTE AS OF 7/30: (contains spoilers) while the end of this story was less defined when I first began writing, due to the organic growth of the story and characters, this story does not end in a sexual relationship with Hannibal/Will. It IS a romantic relationship, and the trajectory of their relationship would lead to it eventually, but there are no scenes depicting sexual acts between them, implied or otherwise. It simply would have felt forced to try to include and out of character for the way I depicted them, and I decided to maintain the integrity of the story as opposed to writing smut for smut's sake. I do believe the other aspects of their relationship and the love between them in this fic is substantial enough on its own, and hopefully worth the amount of time spent both writing and reading it. Thank you.

**Prologue**

_I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness; that which to me, is the only sensible way to love. -Francoise Sagan_

The evening began well enough, notably one-note if Hannibal had to categorize it. It did not deviate it into something more full-bodied, something of interest or vast entertainment, nor did it spiral into something as unfathomably awful of boredom. It began with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, a 1987 label from Spain. Rich with heavy notes of cedar and tobacco, the delicate brightness of anise beguiling the tongue. It paired well with the hearty boeuf bourguignon he prepared, the same wine had simmered in the stew amid a medley of garlic, thyme, and homemade stock. The stew sat on a bed of creamy mashed potatoes, thickened with crème Fraiche and some green beans, cooked just enough in simmering water so that they were a striking and lovely shade of bright green on the plate.

Alana preferred comfort food, and he strove to provide her with a version of it each time she dined with him. An elevated and expanded cuisine to broaden her palette while still satisfying the red-blooded girl within her that loved to tear into the meat with almost carnal ferocity.

He smiled as she did just that, eyes rolling back. “And here I was just going to stop at McDonald’s until you invited me over,” she joked, and he made a show of seeming wounded, laying a hand across his heart.

“What blasphemous things you say in my home,” he teased, before adding in a measured tone that displayed sincerity, “should you ever feel the need to stop at such an establishment, do not hesitate to come to me for some proper food. My kitchen is always open to friends. And friends don’t let friends eat fast food.”

She laughed, the sound sparkling and loosened by her drink- his personal blend he kept stocked just for her. She adored it and he was very fond of her praise each time she took a sip when their nights together began.

He was proud of the recipe; it had been quite a challenge to learn how to temper the taste of blood, all while not interfering with the fermentation process.

He rose his glass of wine, swirled it lightly as he gripped the stem, and inhaled the aroma the wafted upward from the motion. The subtle shifting between cedar and tobacco that revealed the more subtle notes of cherry beneath, a bright blossom of flavor on his tongue.

The evening continued well enough, neither interesting nor dull. Johannes Brahms sat within his record player, the igniting sounds of _Piano Quartet No. 1, Op. 25_ filled the dining room. “Chamber music often sits in the shadows of orchestra and symphony work, a terrible shame if you ask me. While it doesn’t boast the grand assortment of instruments or even the theatrics, there’s something beautiful within the simplicity of it. Fewer instruments allow each sound to shine and require the musicians to truly tune in to one another and their music instead of relying on a conductor to guide them,” he explained, eyes closed as he let the sounds fill him. Nourish him the way his food and wine nourished him. The rising crescendo and the heightened speed of each note before the sudden drop-off, the transition between the sharp strings, and the melodic quiet of the piano. The tapering as they rose and fell together.

She hummed thoughtfully, as though she had any intriguing thoughts on the matter. She liked the music, but she liked it in the way one enjoys the sound of the ocean or the crackle of a fire. Ambient noise to fill the emptiness, bleeding the color into the gray matter. She liked it because it did not demand her full attention; because she equated the sound of orchestral and chamber music with Hannibal and their evenings together and he doubted she even knew what the difference was between the two.

The evening was waning, turning dull.

He served dessert ala mode, the small silver serving tray before him as he scooped the honey and brown sugar gelato on two servings of pumpkin panna cotta. A pear compote followed, finished with a sprinkle of crushed almonds for texture. The dessert tasted like warmth and comfort, the flavors of autumn resonating on his spoon, the pear compote delicate enough that it did not become too sweet or muddled in the spices.

He only had one spoonful before she turned to him, the guilty look of someone with an ulterior motive pulling her features into an expression of contrition. “I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I have a sort of...favor I need to ask of you. A professional favor,” she amended, guilty for sullying what to her was a pleasant evening with the discussion of work.

“I am always willing to help if I can be of assistance. Is this in regards to your profiling work with the BSU?” he asked, hiding his intrigue well behind the cup of earl gray tea he settled on his lips. She was so hesitant to extend for his hand in her cases with the FBI, as though not wanting to invite Hannibal into this world of fetid flesh and brutal crimes. Unaware that he feasted on the crimes of others, chewed the case files like a pathetic creature thin with hunger. She was too independent for his liking in this regard.

To his disappointment, she shook her head, extended a hand out in a fluttering wave. “No, no. The other profession.” She laughed, giddily. Buzzed on beer and the flesh only half-digested in her belly. “There’s a patient I have that I think you would be really good for.”

“Ah,” he said, teacup clattering on his saucer. “It’s no burden, of course. We’ve shared referrals before.”

She had the good sense to look bashful here. “This one’s a bit different, though. He’s a minor, and I know you don’t normally take adolescent cases.”

“I don’t take them at all,” he said. When he realized how rude it sounded, he tilted his head in silent apology and added, “Adolescents require a certain degree of fragility, something which my preferred brand of psychiatry doesn’t often employ. I believe in a healthy amount of confrontation and children don’t typically have the tools to do so. Their brains are still underdeveloped and plastic, which is a wonderful thing of course in any other area but this one.”

She nodded as he spoke, a small yet sad smile on her face. “This one isn’t typical,” she said.

“Very well. Tell me about the case and I’ll decide if I’m an appropriate option,” he humored, knowing he would turn her down. He wasn’t lying, his particular therapy would be too much for a child- his personal set of ethics finding the idea too vulgar to consider. There was an innate innocence with children, one he didn’t feel adequate enough to taint or sully or bend to his whim. A blank slate or a control in an experiment that should not be tampered with.

He enjoyed seeing what people really were beneath their carefully made facades. Children were too young to be anything at all, though, and his meddling would be an impression of him and not of them.

She sighed in relief that he was willing to listen. “I’ve only been seeing him for a few months, and he’s a great kid. Sweet and quiet, really reserved. On the spectrum, I think, professionally speaking but that hasn’t been the focus of our appointments so I can’t really diagnose that,” she began, lips twitching as she recalled the patient with fondness. She was good with juvenile cases, soft in the places he was sharp.

“What is the focus?”

Here her smile dropped, eyes lowering to her bowl as she took another bite of dessert. She chewed thoughtfully, an obvious stall, before swallowing and saying, “He has fantasies. Violent ones. He’s been hard to open up, and he only just started speaking about the degree of them. He thinks about murder and torture.”

He leaned back in his chair. “That certainly is a demanding area of focus, then,” was all he said, the words belying his interest. “Though, if he has only just now started to open up, I question whether or not it's wise to transfer him. Clearly he feels shame, and the trust required for him to share such fantasies takes time to establish. Not to question your judgment, of course, there must be a reason you’ve considered this.”

She smiled, thankful to his respect. “He has this disorder that makes treatment tricky...An um...An empathy disorder.”

The evening had pivoted hastily into intriguing.

“An empathy disorder? A rare thing to have. Even rarer to study it under the effects of other disorders and on a growing mind,” he intoned, now unable to hide his curiosity but assured that it would not seem inappropriate. Alana herself had leaned closer to him, body angled and head tilted as though divulging some exciting gossip.

“Yes, and that’s part of it. I think my professional curiosity is getting in the way of treatment. But beyond that, he needs help learning to cope with it. His thoughts, I mean. He understands and accepts everyone and knows how they think with such a startling degree of empathy that he forgets to understand and accept himself. He needs to learn not only how to cope with and eventually banish his thoughts, but how to advocate for himself. He lets too many people into his head, and he needs to learn how to lock the door. Which is why I thought of you,” she said, extending a hand out to him as though he might be confused about who she spoke of. She took another bite of her dessert. “Your therapy is all about coming to terms with who you are and being confident in that, I think. And that’s what he needs. Plus, you’re good to talk to, I know you wouldn’t make him feel judged or weird or crazy.”

He had to take another sip of tea to hide his smile. There were some moments it ached to not be seen for what he was, muscles cramped and sore from huddling within his person suit. Moments like this where a base part of him- the part not concerned with self-preservation- wanted to throw his head back and laugh with pent up manic glee. Pull the curtain back like a magician revealing their final and most jaw-dropping illusion.

Sometimes, one just wanted the applause for all their hard work.

But he was not the sort to bend to such frivolous and fleeting whims. He was pragmatic, calculating.

He was bored and in desperate need of entertainment.

“Has he shared some of the finer details of his fantasies with you? Specifics?” he asked, hoping the question did not cross a line even as he knew she was too blind to see it.

She chewed a bite, eyes glancing to the side in consideration. “Not too many, really. He gets embarrassed and feels too guilty. But they’re severe. Enough so that he doesn’t watch movies or go online or do anything that’s normal for a kid like him because he wants to avoid running into a trigger. It’s hard to get him to accept treatment when he won’t confront the issue,” she said, and then she sighed, lips skewing into a pitying face. “And I think he might have a bit of a crush on me, which just creates another obstacle. I think he’s worried about me specifically finding him weird and won’t share because of that.”

“Well, he certainly has good taste,” he offered with a lascivious grin, and she blushed even as she shook her head at what she assumed to be flirtation.

“Anyway, will you consider seeing him?”

Yes.

He desperately needed to see him. This boy who was torn in two, bent and crooked with a lust for violence that directly opposed his empathy, his desire to _see_ and _accept_ anyone that was beyond his control. He wanted to study him, cut him down to his smallest cells, and slip them under a microscope. Cut his head open and sift through his brain until he found the diseased lobe or a tumor or the source of his violent thoughts, whisper and prod directly into his brain with reckless abandon.

His moral code didn’t seem to matter anymore, his desire to not meddle with something still growing and blooming forgotten in his haste to clip the blossom and press it between the pages of a thick book. Pressing it until it was frozen in this particular moment in time, at its most stunning.

He glanced at the corner of his dining room, sighed as if in thought. “How old is he?”

She hesitated, trying to decipher the correct amount of information to share. “Sixteen,” she said finally.

“Has he admitted how long he’s had these thoughts?”

“I can send you his full file once I get his dad’s signature if you accept him,” she countered before adding, “He’s been in treatment for some time. I’m the fourth psychiatrist he’s seen.”

A history was a double-ended sword, sharp on both ends. He would always be marked by his fantasies, by the years of treatment he sought in his need to end them. A red flag should he come under suspicion.

A history absolved Hannibal of all guilt. Just another in a long line of psychiatrists who tried but ultimately failed him.

He waited what he felt was the correct amount of time before announcing his decision, making a show of verbally weighing the pros and cons and sighing heavily as if relenting. “I trust and respect your judgment and will defer to you. If you think I can help him where others have not, I will gladly make an exception and try my best for him.”

“Thank you so much, Hannibal. I really think you’ll be good for him.”

Hannibal raised his glass, the teacup not the same as a glass of wine but bearing the same sentiment. “And I think he’ll be good for me.”

The evening ended pleasantly, and Hannibal turned to bed with the unabashed excitement of a child on a Christmas Eve, excited to play with the toys that would be waiting for him to tear off the gift-wrapping.


	2. Rare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham was scheduled to see him Thursday evening at seven. A schedule was important to him. Order was important to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this one so soon after the prologue since the prologue doesn't really get into the meat (heh) of the story. Please enjoy!

**Chapter One: Rare**

Will Graham was scheduled to see him Thursday evening at seven. Alana had made all the arrangements, handled the referral, and negotiated for Hannibal to reschedule his existing appointment so Will could have the same appointment time he maintained with her. A schedule was important to him. Order was important to him.

He swallowed his own distaste at having to call his standing appointment, delicately explaining that the appointment block was being removed until further notice. Franklyn had taken it well enough when he realized he would be seeing Doctor Lecter two days earlier than anticipated. The line drawn through his name was striking as Hannibal dragged the pen through the looping letters in his appointment book, writing underneath it _Will Graham._ He allowed a moment to admire the name- ink still glossy in the golden light of his table lamp. He admired the tapered ends and sharp lines of his first name; the rounded bellies, and looping humps of his last. Sharp and soft; harsh and soothing.

There was poetry in his name and when the ink had dried enough he traced the letters with his fingertips before pressing them to the center of his lips, pink tongue darting out to taste the name on his lips.

He flipped through, writing the name over and over and over again until his muscle memory took over and pulled each vowel and consonant of its own accord. Months worth of appointments already scheduled and set aside.

_A schedule was important to him._

~x~

Though evidently, not important enough.

Thursday came, and at seven sharp Hannibal rose, straightened the lapels of his jacket as he strode across his office and opened the door to an empty waiting room. His shoulders fell, posture slumping minutely. The smell was no different than it had been, the lingering aroma of his five o'clock’s perfume clinging to the molecules that sat invisible in the air.

He was a teenager, he reminded himself. Teenagers were disorganized and forgetful; discourteous as they believed the sun rose and fell with them by nature of an undeveloped brain and prefrontal cortex. Or, perhaps he was one of those misguided youths who believed in the spirit of being _fashionably late_.

He left the door to his office open, sitting once more behind his desk and shifting his files into a neat pile. Will Graham’s file sat on top, a thickness to it that could only come with being a child lost within the deteriorating mental health programs. He had not opened it, preferring to meet him and discern his own opinion instead of reading the thoughts and words of some other psychiatrists. Some less shrewd than him, some unwilling to see behind the black and white texts of diagnostic manuals, looking only for the symptoms they could tick off until they collected enough to hand over the shiny diagnosis.

He would hate to have their words linger in his brain, cluttering up the space that was meant for his own thoughts and interpretations on the subject of one Will Graham.

One Will Graham who was already eighteen minutes late.

He drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk, realigned the pencils and scalpels that had rolled at a slight angle from the motion. He leaned back in his chair, leather creaking. The sky was dark, the approaching winter bringing with it the veil of night, shadows that consumed and swallowed the minutes of the day until the periods of sunlight grew smaller and smaller.

Perhaps he was lost.

Did he drive himself?

Or was a parent driving him?

With a relenting sigh, he opened the file to the first page, the one with the standard contact information. He was intending to collect his own when meeting Will, but Alana had handed hers over in the interim. There was no number listed for Will, only one beneath another name- so similar to his own and yet it felt different. Thrummed with a different energy- subdued, mellowed. The sharpness and softness didn’t blend just right.

_Parent/ Legal Guardian: William Graham_

Will was a junior, the addendum to his name carrying with it a briny innocence, one that Hannibal could taste on his tongue.

He grabbed his phone and dialed the number, holding it to his ear as it rang three times, clipping off on the fourth.

“Hello?” came the tinny, mechanical voice, thick with a Creole accent and scratched in the way that came from abuse. The abuse of shouting wearing on the larynx, acrid cigarette smoke scratching the walls of the throat with each inhale until it forgot how to heal.

“Hello, Mister Graham. I’m calling in regards to your son, who wa-”

“Who is this?” the voice interrupted, and Hannibal swallowed his irritation, eyes fluttering closed. His indiscretion, he surmised. One should always introduce themselves on the phone and he had neglected to do so.

“My apologies, I’m Doctor Lecter, Will’s new psychiatrist,” he explained, a slanted pause following that lasted long enough for him to wonder if either party had lost the connection.

And then William sighed, the sound a burst in his ear as it fed through the phone. When he next spoke, it was not to Hannibal at all, distant in a way that suggested William had pulled the phone aside to speak to someone else.

_Will_.

“New psychiatrist? You said Doctor Bloom canceled,” Hannibal could discern from the muffled words, and the flinch he felt was almost physical. Ah. The avoidance was intentional then.

It would appear he had been stood up.

He strained, trying to hear the conversation that existed on the periphery, may as well have existed in another universe. Small snippets slipped between, distorted by the distance and the buzzing quality that phones imparted on a conversation as though claiming ownership to each word.

“...already discuss...up for negotiation...watch your mouth!... _Well, maybe you keep doing something wrong, then..._ ”

There was the distinct sound of a slamming door, and when William returned to the phone call it was with defeat in his voice, trying and failing to hide the exhaustion that made the accent slope even deeper. “Sorry about that. You know how kids can be,” He paused, chuckled. “It’s a little...we won’t make it in time and I’m sure you don’t want to wait anyway, so why don’t we just agree for next week? Same day and time?”

Hannibal inhaled slowly, letting the breath fill his lungs and hold it there for as long as he could stand before his chest burned and strained. He opened his appointment book to next Thursday, letting his finger trace the name already written on the lined paper. _Will Graham._

“I understand, I’m sure the transition can’t be easy for him, especially since Doctor Bloom told me he prefers a routine,” he assured, tapping his finger beside the name. “You were aware that Doctor Bloom referred him to me, correct?” His tone was soft, free of accusation and judgment.

A moment of hesitation passed. “I’m not as involved I should be, I know. He’s almost an adult though and he’s always good about that sort of stuff so I never thought- she had me sign a release of information form but I was on the phone and didn’t really hear what she was saying,” he admitted, the confession punctuated by a breathy laugh. “I guess you’ve got a starting point for next week, now right?”

Hannibal gave a small insincere smile at the self-deprecating joke. Self-awareness to a fault didn’t negate it, and his patience was wearing thin with the Grahams, his ego still bruised from the knowledge that Will had avoided him out of spite for not being _Alana._

“Life can be overwhelming, and it can be tempting to have someone unburden it by taking on additional responsibilities. However, Will is not an adult quite yet and will need support in getting the help he needs. I can only provide so much of that support.”

William hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, yeah I know, I’m sorry. He’s really a good kid he’s just...troubled is all. But he’ll be there next week, he’ll get over it. He can be damn sensitive sometimes.” It was said playfully, words tumbling into a laugh, but Hannibal found himself frowning, reaching for the slim journal he had prepared on his desk and writing on the first page.

_Considers sensitivity a weakness, compounded by his disorder and father’s restrictions on gender roles, presumably._

“Well, hopefully, he’ll feel better in time for our appointment next week. Would you let him know I look forward to seeing him?”

“Yeah, course,” William answered, and Hannibal thanked him despite knowing his message would go undelivered. Underneath his first note, he wrote _Uninvolved father._

They bid their farewells, and Hannibal hung up the phone, the noise loud in the stillness of the room. Like a cry followed by strangled silence, a gunshot in the dark. Will’s absence filled the room like a ghost, the weight of the rejection sour in his stomach.

Alana was probably right in her belief that he had a crush on her, the referral a personal sting more so than a professional one. His routine and confidence disrupted and shaken in one slip of paper that went ignored by his own father. He glanced at Alana’s contact sheet once more, noticing the distinct lack of a mother’s name.

He left twenty minutes later, the first page of his journal filled despite not having spoken a word to Will Graham. His avoidance contained all the words he would not come to the appointment to say, a silent visit to the confessional booth where Hannibal listened to his sins and forgave them. He was a teenager, after all, prone to impulsiveness. He could excuse a few slights in his etiquette.

He reread his notes once more as he waited for his dinner to finish baking, conjuring an image of Will that he hoped to compare in person.

_Considers sensitivity a weakness, compounded by his disorder and father’s restrictions on gender roles, presumably._

_Uninvolved father._

_Creole accent, has moved at least once in a great distance to Virginia or multiple times before settling._

_No mother listed- perhaps deceased as father seems to have no one else to share responsibilities with. Was her passing recent or is his ‘advanced responsibility’ as claimed by his father the result of having to care for himself and a grieving father while growing up?_

_Abandonment issues stemming from mother’s death and father’s aloofness, moving between so many psychiatrists has deepened the resentment and considers himself to be the issue. Abandonment has also lent itself to inappropriate bonding to stable figures in his life, confusing the reliability and anchoring they offer with romantic or intense platonic overtures. Prone to codependency. Childhood with no mother and absent father has lead to him being touch starved and craving the approval of respected adults._

_~x~_

“I’m so sorry, Hannibal, really, he’s never like this,” Alana apologized for the third time that evening, settling her knife down to rub at her brow with the back of her hand. “I’d offer to call and speak with him about it but I’m not sure if that will help the situation.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, Alana. I don’t even require an apology of Will. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be, moving from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, thinking there was something wrong with you. Wanting somebody to see you but unable to make yourself be seen,” he reasoned, patting the fillets down with a generous drizzle of olive oil and seasoning, salt gritty against his palm.

Alana made a triumphant _ha!_ sound, her finger pointing at Hannibal in accusation even though she grinned wide, eyes sparkling. “See, that’s why! That is why I knew you would perfect for him. You haven’t even met him yet and it already feels like you understand.” She was glowing in pride, delighting in her skills at pairing the two together, a matchmaker for the mentally unwell. “It’s like...he’s just screaming for somebody to _see_ him but he doesn’t know how to do it. I tried, I really did, but I don’t think he wanted me to see him. He was scared I would reject him.” She resumed her preparation, knife slapping loudly against the cutting board as she chopped the Brussel sprouts in half. The excitement in her voice waned, muddled with sorrow for the patient who preferred invisibility to existence.

Perhaps he was the illusion Hannibal would unveil to the world, he thought with an amused laugh that never left his throat. Hannibal the magician who would tap his wand against Will’s invisible head. _‘Watch as I make him reappear!’_ he would say, applause erupting around him.

“It can be terrifying to be seen. Our most sacred selves are mired in sins and darkness that we think makes us unique and terrible, not realizing that we are all mirrors to each other. There will always be someone out there, ready to reflect and accept us. But finding them is a trial of errors, and each rejection is a crack to the surface of that mirror. How many cracks can someone take before the fragments are too small to reflect properly? Before their image is so distorted they no longer recognize themselves?”

Alana nodded along to his words, highball glass settling on pink lips as she sipped her special brew. “Will’s problem is he has too many mirrors,” she said in a sigh, voice fluttering thoughtfully. She toyed with the end of the knife, chewing her lips.

“How did he react when you told him you would no longer be seeing him?” he asked, curiosity getting the best of him. He already told Alana he wished to not hear her thoughts on him, preferring to keep his perception of Will unburdened by his previous doctors. But this question was innocent enough, far removed from her clinical thoughts of his psychosis or neurosis or whatever she had filed him under.

She smiled sadly. “Like a kicked puppy. He has this...he doesn’t smile right. Every time he smiles it’s more like a pained grimace that he tries to make into a smile. His whole face grits with it. He made that face a lot because I think otherwise he was going to cry.” She looked ready to cry then, lips pursing against a sob she did not want to release as she shook her head. “He asked me if I was afraid of him and if I wanted him to go away. It broke my heart.”

She looked to him, brow furrowed and he was aware she was asking for comfort without voicing it. He wound around his counter, arms extended as he folded her against his chest. He smoothed her hair in a comforting gesture- she spoke a language of physical reassurance. She preferred touches, embraces. A physical tethering to the world. He would offer it to her.

“In time he will understand you were not rejecting him but pushing him towards a better path. He’ll appreciate that you saw he needed something and provided it for him. You didn’t fail him, Alana,” he urged. She nodded, the motion felt against his chest and she rose a hand to brush at her eyes before pulling away, smiling her thanks.

They returned to their various tasks, and soon they sat down to a delicious dinner. A mechanic who thought it wise to charge for tire rotations and oil changes he did not do their silent and unseen third guest.

~x~

Thursday. Seven.

The name _Will Graham_ looked up at him in his appointment book like a taunt, mocking him with his absence once more. Hannibal held out his wrist, glancing at his watch. _Seven twenty-two._

He did not wait this time. He did not call William Graham. He simply opened the journal to the second page, wrote done one sentence ( _rejects others before they can reject him),_ and packed his bags. Perhaps he would have Alana call him after all. They could arrange a joint session, Hannibal and Alana meeting Will together to facilitate the transition. It would allow him the opportunity to observe, search his face and reactions unabashedly as he spoke with Alana and ignored the man he spent the last two weeks pretending did not exist.

He was already home when his phone rang, an unknown number settling across his screen. He glanced at it with mild curiosity before answering.

“Doctor Lecter.”

Something shuffled, the phone passing between hands and hair or clothing before pulled out of the way. “Uh...hi,” the voice began, unsure and wavering. “I’m a little late...but I’m at your office...it’s...it’s locked.”

He inhaled sharply.

“Will.”

“Ugh, yeah. Will. Anyway are you...can you let me in or…?”

“I’m sorry, Will, but when you were twenty minutes late I assumed you were not coming and left early. I just got home,” he said, genuine remorse lacing the admission. If only he had been more patient, had lingered in his journal, or waited the full hour before leaving he would not be meeting Will for the first time over a phone call.

It was an indignant way to begin a relationship.

“Oh, right. Yeah, sorry. I should have been on time. There’s always next week-”

“Have you eaten dinner yet, Will?”

The question seemed to surprise the teenager, a humming sound crackling in Hannibal’s ear. It occurred to him that Will was thinking of his answer, wondering when he had eaten last. Before he could respond, a lie no doubt readied on his tongue, Hannibal added, “I live only five minutes from my office. If you wait there, I can pick you up and you can join me for dinner.”

It was not an appropriate gesture, and he wondered if Alana would disapprove of it. She seemed to have a soft spot for Will, mothering him in the way his own mother hadn’t had the opportunity to. But no amount of fondness could smother his diagnose, alleviate the burn at the back of her brain that this child was seeing her because he fantasized of murder. Torture.

He wished to taste those fantasies, wanted to know which ones Will turned to most. If he had favorites, if his thoughts lingered on the carnage and the blood and soft, pulsing organs or if he focused on faces twisted in anguish.

Did he wish to harm specific people, a list of those he collected for perceived slights, or simply because he might like the way they screamed? Or did he fantasize of no one in particular, borrowing the faces of strangers he passed in his day?

He was pulled from his thoughts- embarrassingly, he was not one to lose himself- by a huff of air in his ear. An incredulous voice asking, “You want me to go to your house?”

“We can go to a restaurant if you prefer,” Hannibal offered instead. It was not ideal- the moment he suggested Will join him for dinner it became a need, a desperate desire to watch him tear into flesh, chewing and swallowing and telling him _how delicious it was._ Thanking him for serving him such nourishing food. He imagined Will went the whole day without eating and would eat with ravenous greed like the carnivore he was. A murder of crows picking at carrion.

There was a hollow laugh, biting, and he remembered how Alana described his smile. He didn’t smile right. _Painful_. “Maybe Doctor Bloom forgot to tell you why I saw her...”

“She did not,” Hannibal said, and already he was shrugging his coat back on, moving the phone to his opposite ear. He grabbed his keys, traced the metallic teeth with his thumb. “I am well aware of who I am inviting into my home, Will. Now, can I expect your company?”

He was out the door before Will answered, the voice small and sly and curling into a not-right smile when it finally answered. _Painful_. “What’s for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Dinner at Hannibal's. What could go wrong?
> 
> I always love reading your thoughts!


	3. Preheat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was beautiful, his face all delicate arches and lines. His features matched his name which matched his fractured identity and Hannibal’s smile was all teeth as he looked at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used some dialogue from the show, with slight changes to match Will’s more juvenile mind/ his characterization in this story.

**Chapter Two: Preheat**

Hannibal pulled up to his office, the huddled form of one Will Graham waiting for him on the shadowed stoop. The light from the streetlamp was too far away to cast its glow on him; a vague and indistinct shape that might have been human but Hannibal hoped was not.

He pulled the gear of his Bentley into park, turning the ignition before sliding out. Will looked up, hesitating for a moment before grabbing the backpack deposited at his feet and rising to a stand. He slung a strap over his shoulder and walked down the steps as Hannibal waited for him by the passenger door.

Waited for the moment he would walk into the street light and he could finally see the elusive young man. _Watch as I make him reappear._

“Will Graham, I presume,” he said in greeting when Will made no move past the final step, as though realizing he was about to walk towards a complete stranger.

“Dr. Lecter,” he greeted, his voice a rich dulcet. Deep despite his young age, the trembling warble of puberty forgotten. Will finally moved closer, came to stand before Hannibal, and if he had been a weaker, less controlled man his breath might have caught in his throat at the sight before him.

He was beautiful, his face all delicate arches and lines. Wide and certain jaw and prettily tapered chin with a rounded square shape, the beginnings of stubble that wouldn’t grow in evenly for a few more years disrupting the smooth skin. Wide eyes- deep gray under the night sky- were hidden beneath thin glasses, dark brown curls that brushed his brow and hung around the nape of his neck. Soft and Sharp. Harsh and soothing. His features matched his name which matched his fractured identity and Hannibal’s smile was all teeth as he looked at him.

“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a hand out.

Will stared at it, chewed the inside of his cheek as he dutifully avoided Hannibal’s gaze.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” Hannibal asked as his hand fell back to his side.

He shook his head. “Eyes are distracting. I avoid them whenever possible. You see too much, you don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re wondering if the laughter in them is at you or with you, or if they’re watching to see where your hands are or if they’re-” he glanced up from his heated words, eyes locking on Hannibal’s for a moment that stilled, elongated and stretched so that it seemed hours instead of seconds later that he looked away with a swallow. “Hiding something,” he finished, words muttered into the cold autumn air.

Hannibal nodded, lips twitched into a delighted smile.

He almost licked his lips in anticipation of the night ahead, wanting to sink his teeth into Will. Jaw clenched and tightening like a dog that refused to release his new toy until it was torn at the seams and spilled cotton on the floor.

Instead, he opened the passenger side for him.

“Nice car,” Will mumbled as he stepped aside.

“Thank you.”

He caught the words just as he was closing the door: _‘It wasn’t a compliment.’_

The word smug came to mind, feeling distinctly like that old adage. The cat who caught the canary. He would have to gift Alana with something truly wonderful this Christmas, a gift as grand as the one she gave him. She would be confused, certain she did nothing to deserve such a lavish present but appreciating it all the same.

He settled in the driver’s seat, taking his time with putting the keys in the ignition and turning the engine to life. “Did you drive here?”

Will was looking at the windshield, staring at the cars and buildings before him. Anywhere but at Hannibal. “The bus. I have the schedule here-” he started sifting through his backpack, finding the schedule with ease. He liked order, Alana had said. He probably had a drawer at home with neatly folded and identical tee shirts, socks, and underwear. The same item seven different times to remove the frustration of having to choose something each day of the week.

“I thought your father might drive you. I discussed with him the importance of supporting your appointments,” he said, hands sliding along the steering wheel as he drove down the streets to his home. He did not fail to see the way Will’s hands over the bag resting on his knees, as though mirroring the motion of the man beside him.

Will shrugged. “He doesn’t retain things well. Anyway, he’s out of town for the night. Picking up a boat he plans on fixing and selling,” he explained. His own accent was smoother than his father’s, rippled beneath the surface of his words. He tried hard to hide it, trained away the sloping warmth to assume as blank a voice as possible. Enunciating with such sharpness it seemed to strain him to speak. _Self-conscious of his roots,_ he thought, hoping to keep the words locked in his brain until he could write in his journal.

“How do you feel about the relationship you have with your father?”

Will snorted, looking out the window. He saw the reflection of his not-right smile in the darkened glass. _Painful._ “That’s some lazy psychiatry, Doctor Lecter.”

His fingers drummed over the steering wheel, the words he could not write in his journal sitting on his fingertips with an erratic need to be engraved. _Has been in therapy long enough to feel familiar with the questions and prompts. Will not respond to subtle, more traditional methods but might respond to unorthodox ones if only from an element of shock._

“Not well, then. He’s been stretched thin ever since the death of your mother, probably thinks nothing he says or does is the right thing where you’re concerned. Moving here all the way from New Orleans was supposed to be a clean slate but some things just can’t be wiped clean, can they?” he mused aloud, something like a _purr_ in his chest when Will shifted in his seat.

“Congratulations, you know how to read a file,” he said dryly, the words terse as though pulled from his lips without his consent. _Did not like to be confronted with his identity and reality._

“I didn’t,” he said, pleased when Will twisted to look at his profile for a half-second before turning to stare out the window once more.

“Maybe we can read it together. I’d love to get to know me,” he said, and Hannibal didn’t need to see it to know it was there. The not-right smile.

_Painful._

“We don’t need a file to get to know you. Just you and me. We’ll figure it out together,” he hummed, turning onto his street. He pulled into his driveway, turning the car off but making no move to clip his seatbelt off. “Do you want to talk about why you lied and said Doctor Bloom canceled your session to avoid seeing me last week?”

“No,” Will said, pulling off his belt and slipping out the door without further explanation. The metal clip smacked noisily against the frame around the window with his exit. Will was standing by the door when Hannibal caught up with him, stepping aside so the older man could unlock the door and hold it open. Will stepped into the foyer, eyes flicking about the sprawling home; tastefully decorated with expensive furniture and paintings that seemed more fit in a gallery more than a home.

“Your house is beautiful,” he said, the tone of someone with nothing else to say but knowing something was expected.

“Is that one a compliment or still no?” Hannibal asked, trying and failing to catch Will’s gaze as he gritted his teeth, blushing at his earlier insult. “I take no offense. I’m curious what you think, Will.”

Will rose his brows, twisted his lips in a crooked expression as though to say _‘Of course you_ _are_ _, you’re my therapist.’_ Instead, he let his gaze fall back to the house, the sitting room to the right. He looked to the mouth of the fireplace as though it might lurch forward, clamp marble teeth into him and consume him in hellfire and brimstone and charcoal. His gaze slid to the trinkets lining the mantle, antique medical equipment from sciences that existed only in history books now and the framed butterflies sitting frozen behind glass. Lovely, lively things pinned down behind a glass prison to capture a flightless moment for eternity, corpses crafted into art.

“It’s a little...ornamental maybe,” he said after a moment, fingers twisting subconsciously around the strap of his backpack, the knuckles of his other hand drumming against his thigh in a nervous tick. “It says a lot about you but sometimes people say a lot to hide what they can’t say.”

Hannibal rose his chin, eyes shining in the light of his foyer. “What does it say about me?”

Will rolled his shoulder, huffing out a breath of air between plump and pink lips. “Does it matter? It’s not really you,” he answered, waving a dismissive hand that curled around the silhouette of oil paintings and furniture embossed with woven designs that offered no comfort- only beauty. Then, after a moment, he licked his lips, Hannibal’s eyes following the wet path of his tongue. “The only thing I can say for certain is you like to project a specific image. And maybe you were a doctor before becoming a therapist.”

Something warm and heavy unfurled in Hannibal’s chest, a twisting thing that he imagined to be a snake, slithering in the spaces between his organs. Winding around the knots in his spine and twisting in the cell created by his ribs. A contentedness sitting at the base of his spine that Will hadn’t been distracted by all the shiny and carefully arranged ornaments. That he saw something within the shadows and spaces between the furnishings that others had not. What a delightful evening this was promising to be.

“An image is very important, it precedes you and your reputation. It would be foolish not to be concerned with cultivating one. And you’re correct; in another life, I worked at John Hopkins as a trauma surgeon,” he explained, turning to stride into the kitchen only to come to a halt when he realized Will had not followed, a distant look nestled into his eyes- now blue in this new light, fractured with spirals of amber like a kaleidoscope. They were wide, though unseeing as he stared at the sconce before him, lips pinched so tightly they drained of their color, knuckles white on his grip and the erratic drumming of his hand to his thigh hit an uneven staccato beat.

“Are you alright, Will?”

The name startled him, grounded him back to the moment he had fluttered away from- pining him like the butterflies resting on his mantle. He blinked, made eye contact for a half-second that was over too soon before resting on Hannibal’s hands. Studying them with a shrewdness that seemed much too old on the youthful face.

Was he imagining them buried in an open chest cavity, fingers expertly pinching blood vessels and slipping between pulsing, pink organs? Imagining them covered in blood as he held patients together, bridging the divide between torn skin?

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he finally pulled his gaze away from Hannibal’s hands- strong hands, surgical hands. “I’m fine.”

His voice wavered with a twang he could not conceal. _Slips into an accent when flustered or lying,_ Hannibal added to himself.

“Very well, dinner should be done, I had it finishing in the oven when I left to get you. Chicken parmigiana over polenta with sauteed Swiss chard, onions and oyster mushrooms,” he said, Will following him this time as they entered the expansive kitchen. He ached to know what Will thought of this room- the personality he was constructing of the man before him now that he stood in the space so dear and intimate.

But it would be unbecoming to ask. Will was too intuitive, would see the narcissistic question for what it was. So instead he watched as Will’s gaze bounced around the room, eyes flitting from the fridge to the expensive equipment tucked away on the counter. He lingered for a moment too long on the knife block.

“Smells good,” he said, and this time it was a sincere compliment and Hannibal felt his heart swell at the words. At the way his eyes passed over the kitchen once more, slower this time as though mentally pulling it apart to find all the traces of _Hannibal_ that existed there. As though he hadn’t perused it enough the first time and needed to see more of it.

“Have you eaten at all today?” he asked as he pulled out the necessary plates and glasses for their dining, fingers brushing on the bulbous wells of wine glasses for only a moment before dismissing them. Another time, maybe. It was a tightrope balance, for now; straddling the line between orthodox and unorthodox. Offering him wine would be too much too soon.

Will shrugged, slipping his backpack down and glancing around the room, unsure of where to settle it because everything was too _ornamental._

“My apologies,” Hannibal said, pulling the bag from his hands and reaching to help him out of his coat only for the teenager to flinch away, a wild look in his eyes. “I was going to hang your coat up for you, though if you’re more comfort-”

“I am,” he interrupted, tone clipped.

Hannibal nodded, hands curling away as he rested the backpack on the leather chair in the corner. Armors. Mental forts could only shield him so much, hide him away from the world. He relied on his hair and glasses and tightly layered clothes to cover the gaps in coverage, form a soft and pliant suit of armor.

“Would you mind setting the table, Will?” he asked, gesturing from the plates and glasses he piled on a tray to the dining room. “I’ll get the food ready to go and then we can eat.”

Will nodded, grabbing the tray with slender, clean hands. His touch was delicate, as though recognizing the place settings were expensive and taking great care to not shatter anything. Soft and sharp, harsh and soothing. He was a dichotomy in every way, the sharp sting of his words that were snapped between snarled teeth a picture negative to the soft way he regarded the world, moved within it as he disappeared into the dining room. Hannibal could hardly hear the sound of plates settling on the table and he wondered if Will was painstakingly placing them as gently as he could, fearful he would fracture them.

By the time Hannibal arrived with the food, Will was sitting down before his plate. The silverware was arranged in the wrong order though spaced evenly apart, and Hannibal’s glass sat to the right of his plate while Will’s sat to the left, accommodating their dominant hands. _Considerate_. _Perceptive._

Hannibal’s setting was at the head of the table, Will tucked to the side and he wondered if Will realized he deferred to him as an authority figure instead of an equal without so much of a word. Hannibal offered him a small smile as he slid his place setting to the seat opposite Will, not rearranging the silverware even though it irked him that it was laid out for the wrong courses. “I like to face my dinner guests,” he said in way of explanation before he began serving them and filling their glasses with iced water.

Will waited for Hannibal to be seated before carefully cutting into the breaded meat before him. He watched with bated breath, the inhale sitting in his lungs as carbon dioxide filled and expanded almost painfully within him. Will considered the food on his fork, the blend of hand-pulled mozzarella and burrata cheese melting to the tines before placing the bite on his tongue, lips closing around the morsel as he chewed.

It was his favorite part of any meal, watching and waiting for the inevitable compliment, hungry for the signs of enjoyment. Eyes fluttering closed, pleased and indulgent hums. Though no dinner guest filled him with such anticipation that he was nearly tipping over with it as Will did. Desperately wanting to catalog his response to the meat, to see how Will would respond to the taste of the violence he craved and yearned for. If the flesh he would gnash between his teeth would satiate some carnal instinct even if he didn’t know what it was.

If he would acquire the taste, become inebriated and addicted to it. Crave the decadence in a way that would never be cured or abated.

Would the taste of torture and murder nourish him?

Will didn’t respond like other guests, though. His brows knitted and his tongue ran over his teeth curiously as though trying to taste a certain _something_ he could not name. “It doesn’t taste like chicken.”

It would have been a horribly rude thing to say if he was anyone but _Will Graham_. Sharp and soft. _Painful_.

Hannibal leaned forward, aware he was nearly canting off his chair but unconcerned. Could he taste the difference, then? Special taste buds carved into his tongue that treated meat like a connoisseur of fine wine? Detecting notes of bitterness, fear, and anguish? So attuned with this decadent violence he could taste it in the muscle, in the melted and flavorful pools of fat?

“What does it taste like?”

Will licked his teeth again, lips bulging outward at the action and Hannibal felt himself growing hard, straining in his slacks. “Like...pork? But not as sweet. Not like chicken.”

Hannibal rose his glass to conceal his smirk. When he settled it down, his face had been schooled into the proper neutral expression. “Hmm. I have a special butcher I get my meat from. Humanely raised, free of chemicals, growth hormones, and any sort of treatment that, to me, has always left behind a sour taste in the meat. Perhaps that is to account for the different taste.” He took a bite of his own. Will was right. Like pork, but not as sweet. _Not like chicken._

Will seemed dubious but said nothing as he continued eating. Perhaps that was just his default. Doubtful. Distrusting. “It’s good, though. Really good.” He ate in a restrained way, clearly wanting to eat in quick and too-big bites but forcing himself not to. Forcing himself to follow Hannibal’s lead. Slow and thoughtful bites, letting the flavor melt and meld on his tongue. He imagined Will did not eat many home-cooked meals- if any at all. Imagined him heating up a can of soup in a microwavable bowl, kitchen dark and stove cold.

He was slight- not necessarily thin so much as just _small_. Narrow shoulders and narrow hips, despite having a broadness to him. Lean muscle developed from spending his days outdoors, running from the thoughts that plagued and haunted him, and hoping to bury it behind the strain of wood chopping and hiking. He smelled of autumn, like the sweet decay of dying leaves and cold dirt; sweat and _dog_.

He allowed Will to eat a sizable portion before speaking, not wanting the meal to be tainted in the young man’s memory by the question he would ask. “Tell me, Will...how did it feel to learn Doctor Bloom would no longer be seeing you as a client?”

The sound of a knife sawing through meat came to a damning end, the absence of sound louder than a booming orchestra.

Will stared at his plate, jaw distended mid-chew.

“As pleasant as your company has been, this was supposed to be your time to talk. And I would be remiss if I didn’t ask about something so clearly upsetting you,” he said.

Will did not release his silverware, though he did lean back in his chair, swallowed his bite. “Therapy doesn’t really work with me,” he said, a delectable tone wrapped around his words. Deeper. As though warning Hannibal not to try.

Hannibal never did heed warnings very well.

“If you don’t let it, of course it won’t work. Therapy is just a conversation between two individuals, trying to better understand each other. And I can tell you’re hurting, Will. You feel abandoned by Doctor Bloom.”

He smiled that not-right smile. _Painful_. “Abandonment requires expectation.”

“When did you stop expecting things?”

He huffed out a hollow sound. “I thought Doctor Bloom was afraid of me,” he answered, having weighed which question he would rather avoid and choosing the safer topic. “Like she thought I wanted to-” his words stuttered over something hard in his throat, the strain of tears he tried not too shed. _D_ _amn sensitive._ “I think she thought I wanted to hurt her.”

“Did you?”

The question was a trigger, hammer pulling back and igniting the gunpowder. Will flinched, a full-body motion that made his hands beat against the table, knuckles white as he held onto the fork and knife with an unrelenting grip. _“No!_ I would never. She isn’t who I-”

His words came to an abrupt halt. His mouth hung open at the almost confession before he slapped it closed with a heated gaze tossed at Hannibal’s chin. As though _he_ were responsible for the betrayal of his own mouth; had tricked him into saying the words. His jaw slid, teeth grinding together as a muscle twitched beneath his skin.

“Who do you fantasize of, Will?” Hannibal asked, making certain to use the name to keep him anchored in the moment- anchored in the fevered rage, chest rising and falling with rapid and shallow breaths. His thumb shifted over the handle of the knife and Hannibal had to swallow his arousal so it did not seep into his words as he asked, “Are you thinking of killing me right now?”

The serrated teeth of Will’s knife shimmered beneath the chandelier like a threat before he released his hold, metal clattering against his plate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing I admire most about Hannibal is his dedication to being as horny as possible in the most inappropriate of situations. Thankfully next chapter we get some of Will's POV to take a break from his arousal.
> 
> Also, thank you all so much for your kind reviews! I wish I had the willpower to wait until a set day of the week to post but I get that sweet, sweet validation and get so excited to post more I can't help it. That being said-
> 
> *Bernie Sanders Meme voice* I am once again asking for your comments and kudos~~


	4. Raw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world was blurry, out of focus without his glasses but he didn’t reach for them, preferring the almost nebulous state of being. A purgatory existence, neither a heaven that seemed out of reach or a hell that curled around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter has mentions of self-harm and thoughts of suicide. They are regarded in a past tense and are not described in explicit prose, but they are discussed and described to a degree that some may find triggering. 
> 
> Also, Hannibal’s a dick but that’s a given.

**Chapter Three: Raw**

Hannibal watched as the knife fell against the plate, cutting through the pools of red sauce and melted cheese. Watched as Will flexed his fingers, curled them into his palm so tightly that he was sure there would be blood beading from half-moon cuts. He would smell it, the acrid and metallic tang in the air and he would wish to taste it, licking the spread open palm and consuming it.

“What are you feeling right now, Will?” he asked, lowering his head to try and meet the eyes that stubbornly refused to deviate from Hannibal’s chin.

“ _Annoyed,”_ he said through gritted teeth.

“It’s not my intent to annoy you, though I imagine I’ll do a fair amount of that,” Hannibal said with a grin, taking a bite of his food and giving Will a moment to fill the silence if he chose to speak. He did not. “There is nothing you can say to me that would disturb me or frighten me. I quite assure you, if my years of surgery and teaching myself to cook have given me anything, it’s a strong stomach.”

Will gave a haughty laugh, though his shoulders slumped against the chair, losing the tension in them. Not by Hannibal’s reassurances that he wouldn’t be bothered by his thoughts- certainly, countless psychiatrists had said as much- but perhaps by his humor.

“Let me ask a different question. Tell me about the first time you had one of these…” he twirled his empty fork in the air as though summoning the word to him, “fantasies?”

It was the question he most wanted to know, really. He was certain Will didn’t want to hurt Alana- just as certain as he was that Will had most definitely wanted to run his knife through Hannibal’s neck only moments earlier. These were answers he could surmise on his own and, for the moment, dull in comparison to the answers locked behind those soft lips.

He wanted to know when it began- the first time Will looked at another person and saw them as less than that. Saw them as a thing he could cut into, make bleed and cry and tremble. How long these thoughts had warred in his head, corrupted his small and developing brain. Thoughts marinated in blood.

Will grumbled something that sounded distinctly like _‘it’s in the fucking file’_ before sighing and settling forward on his chair, elbows folding on the table. He twisted his fork in the remains of the mushrooms he pushed from the vegetable saute. “When I was first hospitalized. Eleven.”

“Were you hospitalized for your violent thoughts or for something else?”

Will refused to so much as glance at his chin now, staring resolutely at the table as if he could wear it down with gaze alone. Snap it in half so the dinner would crash to the floor and he could make his exit in the chaos. “If you would just _read-”_

“I don’t want to read about all the things your other doctors have said about you. I want you to tell me about you,” he said, and the words seemed to soothe the boy, smooth the fraying nerves that singed with static electricity.

He sighed. “I...tried to kill myself,” he relented, words seeping through clenched teeth like insects. Shiny exoskeletons and antennas caught in his gritted smile. _Painful_.

Hannibal blinked, setting his silverware down and folding his hands in his lap. “I didn’t realize. Do you still struggle with suicidal ideations?”

Will shook his head, curls flopping with the motion. “I’m not...I never did. It was an accident.”

Hannibal rose a brow, but said nothing, waiting for Will to continue.

“I was...there was this girl in my school who used to cut herself. People picked on her a lot, and she was always so...” he paused, frowned in recollection as his lips sunk deeply into a morose frown. “Sad. I asked her why she did it, and she told me to make the pain go away. I thought it was stupid, how could _hurting_ yourself make the pain go away? But I was...curious, I guess.” He was playing with the cloth napkin now, running his fingers over the soft linen and twisting it between both hands. _Very tactile; focuses better when he can do something other than think about his words._

“You had a lot of pain yourself, and you were desperate to make it go away. Nothing else worked, so you thought _why not_? Even if it did not make the pain go away, perhaps it would replace it with something else. Something that would heal,” Hannibal prompted; not a question but a statement. Will lurched against his seat, startled by Hannibal’s voice as if forgetting the man were there, so lost in the memory and the _sadness_ that sunk into his chest. Both his own and borrowed, the disordered neurons of his brain undulating and trapping at the feelings of another.

He swallowed, nodded slowly. Surprised to have been seen. “I tried it when I got home. I guess I...got a little eager,” he said with that gritted smile. _Painful._ “I woke up in a hospital bed with stitches everywhere, and everyone thought I tried to kill myself but I didn’t...that wasn’t really it...”

Hannibal tilted his head. _Everywhere?_ It was more of a struggle than he cared to admit, keeping his eyes trained on Will’s face, not letting it slide down the collar of his shirt and wondering what parts had been marked by his own hand. A hand that understood what Will wanted even if he did not. Where was _everywhere?_ “What was it?”

Will inhaled a shaky breath. He was quiet for a moment, long enough that Hannibal was preparing to ask the question once more when he picked up his knife and fork and cut another piece of his chicken parmigiana. _Not like chicken._ “I just...really liked the way it felt. Not the pain. The cutting through the skin part.”

~x~

The drive to the bus station was longer than the one between Hannibal’s office and home, and Will tapped the dashboard before him with anxious energy. Each offer to drive him home was turned down; politely at first ( _it’s a long drive, twice as long for you_ ) until the words were practically spat from Will’s mouth, the teenager resisting the desire to roll his eyes at Hannibal _(I don’t really enjoy being around other people this long)_.

A brown paper bag sat on his lap, leftovers and the dessert he wouldn’t stay long enough to eat packaged for him to bring home. He had blushed when Hannibal passed it over, probably the first time someone packaged food for him. It was so lovely- the pink dusting across his face, lips puffing out and twisting- that Hannibal was already thinking of what to make for him next week. What food to send home with him so he and his cuisine would linger in the spaces between his teeth for longer than just the one-hour session.

For the first time in a long while, he felt _full_. A fullness that went beyond his abated hunger, his belly warm and soft with his recent indulgence. The evening had been immensely filling. Better than he had anticipated when he awoke that morning, caressing the name written down in his appointment book and hoping Will would finally sit opposite him in his office.

Instead, Will sat opposite him in his dining room, teeth tearing into flesh and savoring the unique taste. He ate it all, even scooping the side of his fork across his plate to get every last bite except for the mushrooms, licking his lips. He wondered if he was full too, a craving filled in a way he couldn’t name. Hunger abated until slowly it would eat away at him once more, carve and hollow him out.

Their conversation had been stilted, bouncing back and forth between easy and terse. Will had shared, cut away at part of his skull so Hannibal could slip inside his brain. He avoided any questions directly about his fantasies, preferring to talk around them. Never the subject of the sentence, only the object. But he had shared and Hannibal knew now that there were scars cutting into his skin from stitches _everywhere_ by his own hungry hand, searching for something he did not understand at the time but now identified and feared. Something that would not be found under his skin but beneath the skin of another. He now knew, slip of the tongue or not, that the fantasies involved _someone_ in particular. A someone he refused to name. Not Alana.

Maybe Hannibal for a moment, though his temper seemed to shift and he regarded the good doctor with the awkward indifference he began the evening with.

He knew that there was pain, pain so deep he tried to cut it out of his overactive nerves and bone marrow. From the death of his mother, maybe? His absent father who left him to eat microwaveable soup in a dark kitchen, left him to sit on the stoop of a therapist’s office?

He would learn the rest in time, an invitation to join him for dinner again already sitting on his tongue, a menu that was being catered and formed to mold to the tastes he imagined Will had.

Gaps filled in, seeping between the bones that sat in an unmarked grave. Will Graham was coming together in his mind and he was a _masterpiece._

The car pulled into a spot close to the bus station, close enough that he could watch and ensure Will made it within the building safely. He turned to him, a genuine smile carved into his face. “Thank you for joining me this evening, Will. I enjoyed your company,” he said.

Will nodded, the movement sharp and jerking. “Thanks for ugh...the food. It was good.”

“Perhaps, if you would be more comfortable, we can move our sessions from my office to the dining room.” He let the offer sit between them, watched as Will’s eyes- gray again in the low light- flicked between the building and Hannibal, lips pinched.

“Is that...professional, Doctor Lecter?” he asked, enunciating his name so sharply, the descent from the _c_ to the pop of the _t_ like the hammer to a gun pulling back. Violence seeped into him from all angles, it seemed. Filling his head and his belly and his tongue and words.

“Perhaps not the most conventional, but you’re comfort matters most to me. And if pulling the veil of professionalism aside will allow you to feel comfortable enough to share, then I believe the ends justify the means. And the medical doctor in me appreciates knowing you will get at least one well-balanced meal during the week,” he said, tilting his head to try and find the eye contact Will denied him. See too much, but never enough.

Will scoffed, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Your office is fine for next week, thanks.”

A wall, a door slamming shut in his face.

His spine straightened regardless, hiding his hurt well. “Of course. Probably for the best. I doubt that was what Alana intended when she referred you to me. Doctor Bloom, I mean,” he said, suppressing his smile as his cruel words landed, Will’s head jerking sharply, lips pinching into a pout that puffed out his cheeks.

It was mean- juvenile, even- dangling his relationship with Alana in front of Will’s eyes and letting his mind run its course with the implications. Wondering how close they were ( _close enough to use first names_ ) and seeing the hurt and rejection simmer in his eyes, watery even in the low light of the bus station.

Hannibal had a way with words, carving them into points but wrapping them within such pretty, unassuming gift wrap. Saying things he could not voice. _She rejected you, while I invited you into my home._

The seat belt was tossed aside roughly, Will stepping out of the car without another word.

“I’ll see you next Thurs-”

The car door slammed shut, and Hannibal watched with smug satisfaction as Will held the bag of food to his chest with one hand, the other rubbing coarsely against his cheeks.

_He can be damn sensitive._

~x~

Will didn’t go to school the next day.

His dad still hadn’t returned home by the time he awoke for school, and he took the opportunity to extend his weekend. He was hardly in the mood for classes, for the program in his school he was forced into that placed a stigma on his head, an _othering_ that made the students part around him like a river to a rock.

He unplugged the clocks, oven, and cable box for long enough that when he plugged them back in, the time flashed. Twelve AM blinking across the small LCD screens, a green that was too bright. He fed his dogs and let them out, eating the dessert Doctor Lecter packed for him as he stood on the porch. Tiramisu profiteroles, the delicate pastry filled with an espresso flavored mascarpone cream, dark chocolate ganache hardened to the dessert, too soft from sitting in the cream overnight. It was _delicious_ , even though he wanted to hate it, licking his lips and fingers to catch every taste he could. He let the dogs back in before going back to bed, waking up hours later to the door slamming shut.

He blinked, rubbed at his eyes. The world was blurry, out of focus without his glasses but he didn’t reach for them, preferring the almost nebulous state of being. A purgatory existence, neither a heaven that seemed out of reach or a hell that curled around him. Fire and brimstone permanently etched into his olfactory center.

He listened to the sounds of his dad stumbling around the house, exhausted from a night of driving and bad gas station coffee. The sounds of the dogs jumping around him in excitement. Waiting for the moment he realized Will was still home, the moment he would check his voicemail to find the message from the school about his absence.

He reached for his own phone, eyes squinting to see the notifications that blurred, font melding together. There were a few messages, all from Matthew.

‘ _If you were going to play hooky you coulda told me. Coulda spent the day together. Want me to bring you some medicine after school? ;)’_

‘ _The Doc told me to tell you to stop playing sick, your essay is still due Monday.’_

‘ _I think he thinks you finally snapped. Kill anyone good lately? JK. About the medicine tho?’_

He snorted, rolled his eyes as he pecked at his keyboard with too-aggressive fingers. _‘Dad will be home for the rest of the day. And shut up.’_

His phone pinged almost immediately, but he ignored it, not feeling favorable to Matthew and his mercurial moods. He tossed the phone on his bed, stretching his spine out before wandering downstairs, the old stairs creaking and announcing his presence. His dad turned to him, sitting at the kitchen table with a raised brow and purple bags dragging down his eyes. He was eating, a glass container balanced in his hands. The leftovers Doctor Lecter had given him.

“Isn’t it Friday?” his dad asked with a pointed look. Not mad, simply too exhausted and run down from Will to be mad anymore.

Will shrugged, folded his arms over his chest. “My alarm clock never went off and was blinking at midnight. I think we lost power overnight,” he said, then glanced at the oven as though seeing it for the first time. “Did Chilton call?”

William sighed, nodding as he dug his fork into the food. “I got his voicemail. Two of them, actually. He gets nervous when your absences are unexcused. I’ll call him back before getting some sleep. Did you make this?” he asked abruptly, gesturing to the food with a raised brow. Doubtful.

“I ordered take out,” he lied. Then, because he was feeling mean-spirited and annoyed that Chilton felt the need to leave two voicemails when it wasn’t even noon, he added, “Killing people really works up an appetite, you know.”

His dad slammed the container down on the table, fork clattering. “Jesus Christ, Will,” he admonished, rubbing a hand down his face. His accent was thick, sluggish in his exhaustion and frustration with his son.

“It was a _joke_ ,” he said. Winston ran into the kitchen at the sound of Will’s voice, rubbing his snout against his thighs until he bent down and scratched behind his ears. He stayed there, preferring the feel of fur between his fingers and looking at something other than his father.

“Jokes are funny. That wasn’t,” he countered, a pointed finger jabbing at the air. As if suddenly remembering what day it was, he huffed out a breath of regurgitated air that made his lips sputter. “Shit, I forgot about your appointment last night-”

“I went to it.”

William raised his gaze to him, as though trying to find a lie etched onto the planes of his face. “Oh, yeah? How’d it go?” The question was harsh, sitting like a trap between them. Waiting to catch Will in its maw.

Will frowned, thinking back to the night before. It seemed almost dreamlike upon reflection, sitting on the stoop as the shiny black Bentley pulled up. The man rising from the driver’s side, Will’s name on his lips when Will hesitated, suddenly realizing that stepping into a car with a stranger may not be the best idea he had, though he did not know for who. Stepping into his house was like stepping into a different world, a strange world he couldn’t fully decipher. It felt less like a home and more like a movie set, carefully and artfully arranged to be _just so_.

If it was a movie set, it would be a pretentious one. An art-house film that felt the need to cram metaphors into every nook and cranny so the viewer could feel smart for understanding the ham-fisted double entendres that any seventh grader could distinguish. There was something too overt about the décor, almost sinister in the shadows they splayed against the wall. An unsettling blend of grand and traditional furnishings with colder, more modern elements destabilizing the balance.

It seemed tongue in cheek, the bones and horns settled on the mantle in the dining room, resting beneath the oil painting of Leda and the Swan. He knew the story, the powerful god seducing- _raping_ \- the innocent young woman because he couldn’t help himself, assuming the manufactured beauty of a swan to remain hidden.

It was a crude thing to hang in any room, let alone a dining room.

“It was...fine,” he said when too much time had passed and his dad was no doubt certain he had skipped again. “He wears ugly suits.”

William sneered. “You’re not there for fashion tips, kid,” he said, and Will flinched at the moniker, a chill shivering down his spine. “Did you talk to him at all, at least?”

Will sucked in a breath, remembering the feel of the knife in his hand. The sound it made against his plate sounded like restraint. He pulled the hem of his sleeves down, twisting them in his palms as though his scars were too visible under the scrutiny. “A little.”

“What about?” William asked, picking the container up and beginning to eat once more. Will noticed there were no mushrooms- Doctor Lecter must have fished them out before packing the dish for him.

“That’s private,” Will countered, finally standing and turning away from his dad and nudging Winston with his foot, pulling a glass from a cabinet and filling it with water. His mouth felt unbearably dry, saliva swallowed down with each breath.

“It can be private when you stop making your _little_ _jokes,_ how’s that sound?”

“Like bullshit,” Will answered, his tone clipped.

His dad stood, chair screeching back against the linoleum floors, words sitting on his tongue but silenced by the ring of his phone. His eyes pinched closed, wrinkles crinkling in the soft, sallow skin as he cursed at the familiar ringtone. _Three times before noon._

“You better answer. He must think I’m on a spree by now,” Will said, disappearing from the kitchen before his dad could respond, lingering around the base of the stairs to hear the one-sided conversation.

“ _Hello? Yeah, yeah he’s here, sorry. We lost power and woke up late- he’s been home the whole time, yes. No, I just got home actually but...Listen, I understand your concern but he’s not...I’ll think about it, alright?”_

His tone was growing more strangled, more pinched with frustration the longer he talked to the man. Chilton had a way about him, as though making himself more and more intolerable would somehow endear people to him by sheer force of will. A peacocking that fell short, posturing in the hopes of seeming smarter, more powerful than he was, commanding respect without ever having to voice his demand.

He wanted, Will realized with a frown, to be like Doctor Lecter, the man whose quiet platitudes and measured questions somehow slipped past Will’s defenses. Urged secrets from his lips that would normally only come after several appointments, preceded by stubborn silence.

He thought, again, of Leda and the Swan, the powerful god tricking her with a beguiling disguise.

His steps thundered up the stairs, leaving before William’s conversation with Chilton ended. It didn’t matter if he listened, they were all the same. Recommendations for hospitals, for more doctors, for more treatments as though Will wasn’t already filled to the brim with them.

There wasn’t room for anything else.

He gulped his water, setting the empty glass on his dresser as he crawled into bed, pulling his phone from his rumpled blankets. Two messages from Matthew.

‘ _Maybe tomorrow? I didn’t start my essay anyway so I could use help with it.’_

‘ _I can bring some medicine then.’_

He punched back his response. _‘Tomorrow’s fine. I’m not writing your essay though.’_

Matthew was quick to respond, and Will surmised Chilton had probably stepped out of the room so he could talk to his dad, leaving the other students in the program unattended. _‘That’s no way to treat a friend.’_

‘ _You’re not my friend,’_ he wrote but deleted after careful consideration. He wasn’t a friend- a parasite, more than anything. Clinging to Will in the way like molecules were drawn together, linked into chains and bonding together to form something new. Something neutral or destructive, though Will was unsure which they were.

Everyone wanted to be seen and understood, accepted for who they were regardless of how crooked it was.

Matthew was no different, though he preened under the crookedness while Will faltered, crumbled with its weight. They weren’t friends, but he recognized a need that was filled with Matthew’s presence. Half-filled, keeping him nourished enough to not sink into the throes of famine. Someone who saw him without judgment, even if his crude behavior made Will grimace.

There wasn’t really elegance to be found in this disease. He would have to settle for what he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by my own struggles with mental health and a mother who did her best but ultimately was no match for my determination to be a little shit. Though my battle is with depression/bipolar- stigmatizing but not quite as stigmatizing as what Will’s going through.
> 
> It was nice to finally get to Will's POV. Hannibal has such an intense headspace it's good to break it up a bit. Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Next chapter- Will (actually) shows up to his next appointment and inspires Hannibal to finally read his file.


	5. Medium-Rare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then all’s well that ends well. Which reminds me, I have some more food for you. You may have turned down my invitation and dejected the host in me, but the medical doctor in me would still like to see you eat.” Host. It made Will think of parasites and tumors; of festering wounds and feeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update schedule appears to be every day provided I can stay two chapters ahead in writing. I've picked up a few extra shifts for work so it may wane a bit because of that. Enjoy.

**Chapter Four: Medium-Rare**

Doctor Lecter’s office was just as carefully constructed as his home. The unsettling blend of modern and traditional, identities colliding together to conceal the one beneath the sutures that bound them. He did not sit down even as Lecter sat in the black armchair, legs crossed with his hands neatly folded on his knees as his eyes followed Will’s pacing in the room. Touching everything he could as though he would feel the seam of the doctor’s disguise and pull it apart.

His fingers caressed the bronze statue of a stag, pinching the branches of its antlers when Lecter spoke first. “Your dad said you skipped school last Friday. Any reason why?”

He turned at that, face pinched in anger. “You talked to my dad?”

_Private_. These were supposed to be _private._

To his credit, Lecter looked apologetic. “He called to make certain you came to your appointment the evening before. He then asked if there was a reason you might have skipped, and I reminded him of the patient-doctor confidentiality agreement. I assure you, that was the extent of the conversation,” he explained, and he seemed sincere, but he _always_ seemed sincere.

Too much sincerity.

Will nodded, a jerking gesture. “Did you tell him I was late? Or that you invited me to your home for dinner?” There was a cruelness seeping into his words, taunting him as though baiting him to shed the skin of sincerity. The voice was icy, steady where he typically stumbled. His former psychiatrists always stilled at it, his _psychoses and neuroses_ like a viscous smoke in the air.

But Doctor Lecter was unfazed, chin tilting as he gave Will a knowing look. “Did you?”

Will pinched his lips. “No.”

“Neither did I. The point of the evening was for you to speak, and whether that happened over a box of tissues and outdated magazines or a home-cooked meal was superfluous. Do you feel like the evening benefited you?” he asked, and the question felt loaded, as though Lecter was searching for something in particular. Like when Matthew asked if he was good at sucking cock just so Will would feel obligated to compliment him to avoid the switch of his temper.

He was _fishing_.

The question was, did Will feel like biting the hook?

“The food was good,” he said finally, meeting him half-way. “Better than the ramen I was going to eat.”

Lecter smiled. “Then all’s well that ends well,” he teased, extending his hands out in a broad gesture. “Which reminds me, I have some more food for you. You may have turned down my invitation and dejected the host in me, but the medical doctor in me would still like to see you eat.”

_Host._

It made Will think of parasites and tumors; of festering wounds and feeding.

“You don’t have to feed me. You’re not my father,” he said, wavering between offense at the food- like he was pathetic in his hunger, a neglected child the doctor pitied- and warmth at the gesture. There was a kindness to someone cooking for you, a nurturing gesture that struck through him like the vibrating string of a cello. Everyone wanted to be seen, to be cared for. And what was more caring than homemade meals, tied up in brown paper bags with strings? There was a song about that, he thought with wry amusement.

Lecter was unbothered by the tone, straightening his lapel as if it wasn’t already perfect. “Indulge me, Will. You don’t even know what I made for you.”

_Made for you_.

Implying it was made specifically with Will in mind, not something that the doctor made himself and thought to share. Something tailored for him, the dinner he would have had if he accepted the invitation to sit beneath the twisted bones and painting of Leda and the Swan.

“What is it?” he asked, licking his lips and regretting it instantly when Lecter caught the action and smiled.

“Pork roulade stuffed with apples, sausage and rosemary with Cajun roasted potatoes on the side. And for dessert, a seasonal fall tart with cardamom flavored Bavarian cream, topped with plums, pears and quince paste,” he explained, saliva pooling behind Will’s teeth at the words. He was leaning into feeling warmth that Lecter cooked for him, if only because he regretted turning down his invitation out of spite a week ago. One meal had spoiled him, the off-brand strawberry Pop-tarts and tinned ravioli tasting paler since his dinner. Things that in the past were _good-enough_ suddenly too sweet, too metallic.

A craving that could not be washed away with processed foods and sugary sodas.

“Well, no point wasting food,” he mumbled.

“Excellent,” Lecter said, standing from his chair and striding through the office. He opened a door that sat between some bookcases, underneath the loft, and Will scoffed at what he could only assume was a _kitchenette._

The man didn’t just like to cook, it was his _passion_ , Will thought as he recalled the meal within the man’s home. All the personality and life that was carefully obscured in the dining room and living room of his house blossomed in his kitchen. No facades to hide behind, just pure _Hannibal Lecter_. He exuded control in it; and there _was_ control in it. The preparation, the cooking, the seasoning. He had a hand in the entirety of the dish’s creation, taking ingredients and turning them into a sum that was better than its parts. Crafting interactive art that he and others would chew into, swallow and grow fat and warm on.

When Lecter returned, it was with two plates, a thermos tucked beneath his elbow. Will rose to help him- he was surly, not _rude_ after all- and took the two plates, settling them down on the desk. It smelled delicious because _of course it did_ and Will tried not to look too eager as he pulled the chair he refused to occupy moments later to sit opposite Lecter’s.

It was warm when he bit into it because the smug, arrogant bastard probably kept it so in an oven knowing it wouldn’t burn. Knowing Will would accept it. He chewed thoughtfully, the sweet burst of apples exploding on his tongue, bright against the savory meat.

_Pork._

_Not like chicken._

He frowned.

“Is everything alright, Will?”

He nodded, swallowing his bite. A mild throb was pressing against his temple, the beginnings of a headache. His thoughts were muddled, twisted.

“You made pork,” he said.

Lecter nodded. “I made pork.”

A beat passed. “I like it better than the chicken.”

Thin lips twitched into a smile. “I thought you might. I’m glad.”

He ate, eyes sliding to a slim journal resting beside the lamp. “Are those your notes on me?” He asked the question, expecting a lie. Every doctor he saw had notes on him, though they all pretended they didn’t. Pretending to be friends while all the while studying him, building enough to publish within a pompous article that would sit between an ad for anti-depressants and an ad for anti-psychotics in _Psychology Today._

It seemed reductive to Will. Breaking him down to his smallest components.

Lecter glanced at it. “Yes. Perhaps one day I’ll share them with you if you’d like, but I’m afraid viewing them now would be unfair to us both.”

He supposed it would be unfair. This was only their second meeting. How much could one know about someone in only a few hours of shared time? Will could count on his hand the things he knew about Lecter.

_Former medical doctor. Values a specific image. Likes to cook. Bad choice in clothing._

_Sincerely insincere._

“Would you like to view the notes from your previous doctors?”

The question caught Will off guard and he choked, inhaling the spiced potato the wrong way. His hand cupped over his mouth as he coughed into it, his other accepted the glass of water Lecter passed him. The water helped, though didn’t entirely abate the cough that sat in the back of his throat, strangling him slowly.

Lecter pulled the file from a drawer, set it to the side of their plates.

“This feels...like something I’m not supposed to see,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

“It isn’t, normally. I will advise you that I myself haven’t read it and so I can’t say whether or not you’ll find it satisfying. But I firmly believe that every patient has the right to what their doctor’s think of them, even if they legally might be deemed too unprepared for it due to age,” Lecter said, gesturing outward with his knife and fork. The motion was smooth, practiced.

Will pulled the file into his lap, stroking the bulging spine. “There’s a lot here.”

“A culmination of your psychiatrists, primary physician, school transcripts, and any other pertinent medical information,” he answered, then said after a moment, “I’m sure it feels like a lot in your brain as well.”

Will swallowed. All of his doctors, all their words about him- about his _brain_. About the kind of crazy he was. A unique crazy. A crazy never before seen, his empathetic brain twisted with a cocktail blend of _neuroses and psychoses_ which made him a _fascinating study._ Physiologically the exact opposite of a psychopath but dressing up as one, shirking into a costume of madness that his _violent tendencies_ stitched together. Everyone wanted to be the word on Will Graham, less a person than he was a case study.

His stomach heaved, twisting and cloying. He felt like he might be sick, a fevered flush creeping from his collar.

“Maybe I don’t want to look after all,” he muttered. He was aware his hands shook, manila folder crinkling with the trembles. He dropped it to his lap and flexed his fingers, hoping it wasn’t obvious.

Lecter was watching him.

Observing him.

He was a _fascinating study._

He swallowed, his saliva like acid in his throat. “You wouldn’t publish anything about me, would you, Doctor Lecter?” he asked, words hoarse.

Lecter frowned, brows furrowing. “Have you been published before?”

He said nothing, his silence as damning as the _yes_ that was burrowed in his tongue.

The older man sighed, coming around the desk to pull the file from Will’s lap. “It’s maddening I imagine, not knowing what’s going on in your own mind yet having doctors feel confident enough in their assessment in write articles on you. Seen for all the wrong reasons,” he said, and Will both hated and loved how perceptive the man was. Sparing him from trying to find the words that would so neatly and tidily sum it up. They always seemed to escape him, sitting on the tip of his tongue but never moving further.

Hating that the man seemed to read him with such ease, sinking into his brain and stealing his thoughts.

“How many articles?”

Will sighed, gritting as he smiled a smile that showed all his teeth. “I stopped keeping track. Hard to keep up with all the different doctors taking their turn. They’re not very good, besides.”

_Besides._ That was a strange word for him to use in that context. The sort of word Lecter might use because it sounded smoother and bolder than _anyway._ He scowled, the way he did when he realized other people were snaking into his brain, his traitorous mind mirroring them as though he was so uninteresting he needed to substitute pieces of himself with others.

But he wasn’t uninteresting. He was a _fascinating study._

“Are the articles in regards to your empathy disorder or to your fantasies? Though I’d imagine there are a few that overlap in how the two interact with one another?” Lecter asked as he leaned against the desk beside Will, folder clasped in front of him.

“You’d imagine right.”

Lecter hummed thoughtfully. “Seems irresponsible to publish on the matters of your mental illness when so much remains unseen. The articles can’t be very good if so much of it is conjecture. You don’t talk about your fantasies, do you, Will?”

Will shifted in his chair, skin prickling at the question. There was an automatic response he felt at the prompting of his most guarded thoughts, a fight or flight response. He could feel his mouth twitch with the desire to snarl, jaw clenching as if doing so would stop him from jumping forward and capturing a throat between his teeth. He didn’t want to talk about them, he just wanted someone to tell him how to make them go away.

How to be _normal_.

“The few times I have, it’s never worked out,” he said with a smile. All teeth.

He blinked against the memory. The psychiatric ward with the gray-colored cafeteria, foods that could only be eaten with a spoon. Like a baby, they wanted him vulnerable. Defenseless. The iron cages fitted on the windows and the mundane routine of raising his hand to alert the nurse that _no, he still hadn’t fallen asleep yet._ The med line, swallowing the pills that sat in the small paper cup and opening wide, letting them check under his tongue.

“Do you know why therapy is the most prescribed treatment for mental illness, Will?”

He noticed the doctor liked to say his name. Liked the taste of it in his mouth.

“Because we haven’t found anything better?”

Lecter smiled, eyes bright at his joke. “It’s because speaking things into existence gives power to them. To you. By speaking them and letting them exist, you give yourself the power to overcome them. Demolish them. But if you keep them in there, trapped in your skull, they’ve nowhere to go. They will feast on your brain until it’s rotten and unrecognizable. It may seem contradictory, by sharing the worst parts of yourself will help you find the best parts.”

Will’s lips twitched, an uncertain tremor alighting his nerves. He didn’t want the worst parts or the best parts. He would settle for the mediocre parts. “You wouldn’t say that if it were you. You wouldn’t want anyone to know what you think,” he said, the words a whisper. He felt small. Childish.

The smile became a wolfish grin. “No, not at first I imagine. I would eventually because I would cherish the best parts of myself I discovered along the way. But it’s never easy to share yourself. I’m not foreign to the idea of vulnerability and abandonment. It would take time. Trust.” He pulled away from the desk, returning to his chair. “I will be here as long as it takes for you to trust me, Will. And I hope, when that time comes, you’ll see I was right.” He grabbed his fork and knife, taking a bite and swallowing before motioning to Will’s plate. “You should eat before it gets cold.”

Maybe he did know one more thing about Lecter, he thought as he turned his focus back to his food. Something more abstract, an obscure thing that contained multitudes within. He knew that there was something... _off_ about the man. He was unsure of what, or even why he felt that way. The insincere sincerity, the carefully and masterfully designed movie set that was his home and office. Something….maybe not _wrong_ or even _bad_. But something _not right._

Something...just a shade away from normal.

Slightly to the left of normal.

~x~

Hannibal walked Will out of his office, settling a hand on the small of his back only for him to shirk away from the touch, gritting his face. _Painful_.

It was not the reaction he anticipated receiving- he surmised Will would be desperate for touch and connection, leaning into codependency the moment his barrier crumbled. Perhaps he was too guarded, requiring trust even to ease into offered comfort. He was not so desperate to sink into it simply because it was dangled before him, a lure to a hungry fish.

He would have to amend his notes.

William Graham was in the waiting room when the opened the door, on his phone despite the sign hanging on the wall. _‘For the privacy of our patients, please no cellphones or recording devices.’_

He raised his chin, clearing his throat.

“I-ugh, yeah- hold on,” William said, covering the receiver with a palm and standing from his chair. “Doctor Lecter, hello. I’m Will’s dad,” he greeted, taking Hannibal’s proffered hand and giving it two erratic pumps before dropping it. “Everything go well?”

“Will seems to be settling in splendidly. If you wouldn’t mind though, in regards to minor patients its always wise to have a rapport with the guardian as well, if you have a few minutes-”

William frowned, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I don’t. Not tonight, maybe next week. Thank you though, for...everything,” he said, motioning broadly where Will stood by the door, head resting against it and exposing the delicate columns of his neck. _Will was the everything._ A burden he loved but held at arm’s length, unsure of what to do or say but having all of it be _wrong_. _Everything wrong._

Something twisted in his guts at the dismissal, like a piercing knife. _Rude._ “I understand, Mister Graham. Next week then. Though, I would like to point you to the sign regarding our cellphone policy,” he said, inclining his head as he spoke and gestured to the sign in question.

William looked bashful. “Oh, sorry. It um, it’s his doctor, though. I didn’t think it would matter since it’s just us here and he’s been wanting me to bring Will in-”

“I just went _last month_ ,” Will spat, interjecting himself in the conversation.

William glanced at Will, as though only just remembering he was standing there. “It’s free, Will, don’t be so difficult.” He turned back to Hannibal, mentioning something about an arrangement but the words were lost, turned to white noise when Will muttered something bitter below his breath.

‘ _Free for you, maybe.’_

Ah.

One of the infamous article writers.

He was practically tickled pink by the revelation, his good spirits extending to William Graham’s poor etiquette. He smiled, a genuine smile, as William went back to the phone call, opening the door and placing a hand on his son’s shoulder only for it to be brushed away.

A physical barrier slamming down between Will and his father.

He was lost at sea, adrift and desperate for a buoy.

Hannibal would be that buoy.

The Grahams left, and Hannibal returned to his office, opening the file for the second time with renewed interest. Searching for the mysterious article writer who made Will an unwitting muse to his sciences.

He found it quickly enough- second page, general information- and was unable to stop the chuckle that resonated in his throat. It seemed he and Will had been existing around each other- side by side, slowly infringing on each other until their lives collided, like two atoms fusing together to detonate. Or collapsing stars, caught in the implosion of the other. Alana the first connection between them, and his primary physician the second. Will seemed to have missed Hannibal by only _months_ of his career at John Hopkins.

He flipped through his appointment book, pleased to find he had a three-hour block free in the afternoon next week. He would visit Donald Sutcliffe, hoping to discuss his new favorite patient with his former colleague. _Their_ favorite patient, he amended to himself, recalling Will’s bitterness at the fame thrust upon him by too many doctors. A scientific anomaly. A case study developing before their very eyes.

But for now, for the rest of the evening, he would get to know Will as the rest of the world saw him. He was confident enough in his assessment to not be swayed by what previous doctors had to say now, and the temptation of that thick folder was growing too great to resist. The temptation of seeing whatever it was that made Will stiffen, drop the folder from shaking hands. Will Graham over five years, spread out and dissected and torn apart in his hands.

He slipped the file into his briefcase and gathered his things for the night, thinking of the drink he would have while he read it over. Something layered, full-bodied. Sharp and soft.

~x~

Will’s hospitalization was the beginning of this timeline. Eleven years old. _Stitches everywhere_. He spent a week in the psychiatric ward, several doctors forming his treatment team. He didn’t tell them the truth, plying the doctors with lies of omissions. He let them think that it was a suicide attempt, that he was depressed and desperate for it all to end. They prescribed him _Wellbutrin_ and a low dose of melatonin to help him sleep each night when the orderlies reported he was always awake when they did their overnight rounds. Better to keep him pliant, brain numb with the drugs.

He was released to the outpatient care of Doctor Frederick Chilton, his school psychiatrist that lead the program he was now locked away in, kept from other students. He wasn’t immediately shuffled into the program though, spending a year in Doctor’s Chilton care before the truth bubbled out, like the first beads of blood in a shallow cut. When, during a particularly stressful day and vulnerable to Chilton’s pressing and unyielding questions, Will made the damning confession that would forever follow him, a brand to the world that never healed.

Chilton’s frantic writing quoting him in his report. _‘I don’t want to hurt myself. I never did. I want to hurt [redacted].’_

Hannibal frowned at the thick, black line, amputating the quotation too early. He paused in his perusal, sipping the scotch that sat on the table beside him. He had, initially, reached for a bottle of wine until he saw the familiar name in Will’s file- _Frederick Chilton-_ and changed to something stronger. A sad summation of the public school system when Chilton was employed to guide the youth, his reputation never quite recovering after the whole _psychic driving_ scandal with Abel Gideon.

His reputation never recovering with Hannibal, who had yet to invite him to a dinner party out of spite for the man who misappropriated his identity. Though, perhaps now was as fine a time as any to extend the olive branch, his curiosity prickling as he read Chilton’s notes on Will.

Will, who had been hospitalized after his confession to Chilton, not because he had _stitches everywhere_ but because he wanted someone else to have _stitches everywhere_. Someone _redacted._ Gone was the intake notation that read _‘self-harm and attempted suicide’_. In its place was a different beast entirely. One that made a smile curl across Hannibal’s lips.

‘ _Violent thoughts; A danger to himself and others.’_

A longer hospitalization. Three weeks because Will stubbornly refused to broach the subject further. _Challenging patient, unable to confront his illness._

But he was quiet and well-behaved and eventually, the hospital needed his bed for someone else. When he was discharged, it was once more to Chilton and his program and with the sharp change in Chilton’s thoughts of Will Graham.

Before the confession, he saw Will as lacking in confidence, low self-esteem, and struggling with depression; an intriguing study despite it all because of his empathy disorder. Sutcliffe wasn’t the only one who put pen to paper their thoughts of Will, enfolding the young boy between the pages of psychiatric journals and future learning tools. Hannibal wondered just how many bylines in those articles of Will belonged to Chilton, the man clinging to anything that might reignite his career.

After the confession, though, he saw Will as manipulative and cold, a charming psychopath too young to be called as such. _A danger to himself and others._ His referrals ranged from moderate- long-term care facilities, group homes- to the extreme- electroconvulsive therapy. All the while, Chilton continued to study him. Publish him in articles that recanted the first few because now Will was different. Now, Will was a child with a unique disorder but also a _danger to himself and others._ His empathy so grand it became his own undoing.

William Graham, in a rare moment of advocacy for his son, requested the first referral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Hannibal finishes the file and has some very exciting revelations about Will, kicking his obsession from 100 to infinity. And Will gets to deal with the other clingy psychopath in his life because he won the world's worst lottery. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!


	6. Charbroiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The recorder sat in his palm, almost red hot. Will’s words sat in the device, frozen in time. The only words he’s ever spoken about his fantasies etched into the mechanical blueprints and memory. Alana had given him his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started writing it. Had a breakdown. Bon Apetit.

**Chapter Five: Charbroiled**

Hannibal perused the file for the rest of the evening, stopping only to rise when his record came to an end and he changed it to Beethoven, preferring the deep, more melancholic tones to wrap around him. The correct ambiance was always important to set a stage, and Will Graham’s file was an opera assembling before him, the red curtain pulling back in a great, theatrical pull. The early years the first act, wrought with lies and misinterpretations. Assuming the skin of someone more innocent, more docile than he was out of shame. The crescendo of the act coming to a close with the unveiling of his true identity, Chilton turning on his favorite subject to write about with ease.

The second act was just as wrought with drama, and Hannibal pulled down the knot of his tie, rolled his sleeves up. Each scene more and more intriguing, causing saliva to settle under his tongue as the history of Will Graham played out before him in such majesty. At age thirteen, he began seeing a different psychiatrist- Bedelia DuMaurier, a name that was vaguely familiar to Hannibal as he enjoyed moving between scientific circles. They were not a good match, and after a year of treatment with no progress, Will refused to attend his appointments, calling her a _‘bitch’_ and some other crude words that must have tasted like rebellion on his adolescent tongue.

Hannibal finished his scotch with laughter in his eyes, imagining a young Will spitting such hateful words at the icy woman.

The next psychiatrist was one of great interest, though Hannibal did not recognize the name. A Doctor Otto Wilcox.

There were no notes from the good doctor, only legal documents and dropped assault records.

Will bit Wilcox during an unconventional therapy treatment gone wrong, kindly unhinging his jaw before severing the finger but not before twelve stitches were needed to seal the wound. A cognitive interview that became too intense and when the doctor reached out to ground Will, the boy lurched forward, teeth first.

Hannibal had to set the file down, eyes fluttering closed as he envisioned the scene, framed by blood-red curtains. He imagined Will, fourteen years old, and straddling the hurdle of boyhood into manhood. Prone against a chair and head tilted back, face twitching in a memory that pinned him down, strangled him. Sinking further and further into his psyche until Wilcox moved forward to shake him, grab his face to drag him into the present only for the boy to turn. Become feral.

Blood dripping down his chin, staining his lips and shirt.

He remembered Will during dinner in his home, canines tearing into the meat. _Not like chicken_. Did he recognize the taste? Did it sit like an itch on his brain, a flicker of recognition at the flavor on his tongue?

He returned to the file, hunger stabbing his gut.

The doctor did not press charges, even though his practice urged him to. Will was banned from being a client to any of the doctors operating from the office and didn’t bother to reach out to any of their referrals- limited, few psychiatrists willing to work with someone who was a _danger to himself and others._

That was, until two months before his sixteenth birthday when he finally- after a year and half of no therapy outside the one in his school’s program- began seeing Alana Bloom. Chilton wrote the referral, threatening to have Will remanded into state custody, forced into a long term care facility unless he resumed therapy.

Hannibal was surprised when an envelope- a white mailing one- slid into his lap with the flip of a page, Alana’s bubbly writing embossing his name on the center. He blinked at it, picked it up between his thumb and forefinger. There was something in it, something small and slim but hefty in its weight.

He opened it, a tape recorder sliding into his palm.

He glanced at it impassively, fingers curling over it and giving it a squeeze before pulling the letter out of the envelope.

_Hannibal-_

_Instead of giving you my notes, I thought it would be easier to give you this. It’s from a session I had with Will three weeks ago and was the one that made me realize I was unfit to treat him. It's the best representation of Will I can offer and is the only time he ever gave me specific details about his violent thoughts. I hope you listen to it and see what I see when you look at Will. He’s a sweet kid who really wants to change, don’t let Chilton’s file give you the wrong idea._

_-Alana_

He wasn’t aware he had stopped breathing until his chest burned and he exhaled the stale air that poisoned his lungs. The recorder sat in his palm, almost red hot. Will’s words sat in the device, frozen in time. The only words he’s ever spoken about his fantasies etched into the mechanical blueprints and memory.

Alana had given him his words.

His confession.

His skin was prickled in gooseflesh and even though he already had two glasses of scotch- two fingers each- he poured himself another, feeling slightly intoxicated. Not from the alcohol, but from the pieces of Will Graham strewn before him. The _words_ he was about to listen to-

He pressed play, brought the glass to his lips as it began.

_Silence._

The mechanical sort of silence, the quiet buzz, and droning of the device until it was broken, Alana’s quiet voice the first one to blossom from the speaker. _“Will, we’ve been seeing each other for about five months now. And while I’ve loved getting to know you, I need to know all of you in order to help you. Don’t you want to get better?”_

A sigh. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. _“Yes.”_

“ _I know it’s hard, but I need you to share._ _I can’t treat you if I don’t know-”_

“ _Just...tell me how to make it stop. You don’t need to know the...the specifics. It’s all the same.”_ There was a pause, and when his voice returned it was hushed. Almost too quiet for the device to pick it up. _“Just make it stop.”_

“ _Only you can make it stop, Will. I can give you the tools but I don’t know what ones to-”_

A laugh. Hollow and jerking. _“Can’t we just talk about the dog I got over the weekend? You’d like her, I think-”_

“ _Will, we can’t keep talking about your dogs. Or fishing. Or hiking. That’s not why you’re here.”_

Harsh, even if she didn’t intend it to be. To Will it would be a slap in the face. A reminder that she was not his _friend_. She was his therapist, paid to listen to him, and all the banal or horrible things he had to say. That he was there not because she enjoyed chatting with him but because he was a _danger to himself and others._

Will said nothing, and Hannibal could practically see him, lips pulled into a pout, eyes steadfastly avoiding her gaze. Wet and pink from tears he would not shed, his pride too much, too weak to allow such an emotion.

“ _Do you know why you’re here, Will?”_

“ _Because I...think about...hurting people. Killing them.”_ His tone was flat, broken by a thick swallow. Swallowing his guilt and shame, his reservations.

“ _Yes. You think those thoughts but that doesn’t mean you are them. You’re a lot more than these things, Will. And we can get you past them. We will, but in order for that to happen, you have to acknowledge them. Just tell-”_

“ _I don’t want you to hate me!”_ The words were pulled from his lips, strangled around a sob. Hannibal could hear the hitch in Will’s breathing, practically see his shoulders shake with the tears that now streamed down his face, cutting over his cheeks in rivulets. _“You’re the only one who hasn’t treated me like some sideshow or escaped convict and if I tell you-”_

“ _I won’t treat you any differently, Will. But you can’t let my opinion of you stop you from getting treatment. You need to focus on yourself, not me.”_

A shuddering breath, ending in a strained laugh that accompanied that not-right smile. _Painful._ _“I don’t like focusing on me. I don’t like me. But I like you.”_

Ah.

He could see it then. The moment Alana’s shoulders would stiffen, her sad smile falling on Will with the realization that came at his words. _I can’t help him_. Will would never accept her help because he would never open his mind to her, locking it and steeling it away from her so he would never have to feel the burn of her judgment. Or, worse, her pity.

There was a drawn-out silence- long enough that Hannibal thought the recording might have come to an underwhelming end. But then Alana spoke, her voice soft and resigned in the understanding that this would be one of their last sessions.

“ _I’ll tell you what, Will. If you can answer some questions and share one of these thoughts with me- just one- we can spend the rest of the session talking about your new dog. Does that sound good?”_

He must have nodded because Alana spoke again. _“These thoughts you have...does it matter who it is? Or do you just imagine people as placeholders?”_

When Will spoke, it was detached. Empty. _“Sometimes it’s...random. But mostly...mostly they’re about a few particular people.”_

“ _Do you have any plans to hurt these people?”_

“ _No! No, I don’t...I would never. I don’t_ want _to think these-”_ he was crying again, and Alana was shushing him, trying to calm him down enough to hear her words of assurance.

“ _I know you wouldn’t, Will. I just have to ask.”_ She sighed, allowing Will a few seconds to compose himself before adding, _“Tell me one of these thoughts, Will. I promise you’ll feel better, and then we can talk about your new dog.”_

Leaning forward wouldn’t allow Hannibal to hear any better, but he did it all the same, holding the recording close to his ear so that when Will spoke it was against the shell, curling within his brain. _“There’s...there’s one I have...where I...cut into...”_ He paused, inhaled sharply. Steadying himself for the words he was about to say. Make real. Speak into existence. _“I cut into their head...but not their brain. K-keep the brain okay, removed the skull cap and then..um...”_

He hesitated, and in those seconds between the words, Hannibal’s own brain raced. Mind conjuring all the ways Will might finish that sentence. Stab an ice-pick into the folds of the brain, twist and scramble them? Dig his fingers in and _touch_ their thoughts?

What Will finally said was better than anything Hannibal could imagine, and he almost groaned with the words that came from the device, tinny and blossoming in his ear. 

“ _...I shove a cattle prod in and just...don't stop until all I can smell is the burning meat.”_

He turned the recording off abruptly. He was not the sort of man to be overwhelmed. But Will had done just that without even having to be in his presence. The memory, the ghost of him was enough to overwhelm him. Overwhelmed by the beauty of Will’s design, the sheer animalistic crudeness of it all. The word _meat_ instead of brain or organ, already pulling the two apart from each other and dehumanizing the pig into the carcass he was. Overwhelmed by the voice, deeper and sharper- jaw clicking with the words.

Will had used that same voice in his office, a lengthening of his spine and a momentary brushing aside of his doe-eyed facade. He was trying to be intimidating, and that same voice was pulled from him as he slipped into the recollection of a fantasy he oft turned to. One that made him feel powerful. Shocking and deteriorating the mind of _redacted._

But the overwhelming surge of emotion, of arousal, clipped to an abrupt halt. The fantasy Will described itching under his skull, pulled at something-

He flipped to the earlier pages of the file, flipping back in time. He found the page he was looking for, reading and rereading the words until they fizzled behind his eyelids in an afterimage, his breath almost coming out in pants and a smile like a knife twisting his face.

‘ _...It is my advisement that the patient requires extreme measures to control his impulses and that he poses a considerable risk to the public until a suitable form of treatment is found. Electroconvulsive Therapy, while not often utilized to treat violent urges, has shown great sides in treating mania, a state similar...’_

“Oh, Frederick. Will certainly wasn’t a fan of your articles,” he mused aloud, clutching the page in his hands as though it were a prize.

~x~

Wednesday. Two Thirty in the afternoon.

“Thank you for making time to see me on such short notice,” Hannibal began, coat folded over his arms as he followed Doctor Sutcliffe to his desk, sitting on one of the chairs on the opposite side. “And my apologies that the first time we’ve reconnected is over matters of the trade. Time always manages to run away from us, doesn’t it?”

Sutcliffe chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I was happy to hear from you, though. Especially after I received an email from Will’s former therapist that she stopped seeing him and referred him to you. I knew it would only be a matter of time before we found ourselves here.” He smiled here, a smug smile pulling on his lips and revealing a dimple on one side of his cheek.

Hannibal nodded. “Of course. As his doctors it's only wise we seek each other for counsel for his best interest. Though I admit, I was curious to see you acting as his primary physician. A bit below your pay grade isn’t it?” he prompted, tilting his chin curiously. And it was genuine curiosity, not the one he often mimicked in a display of social reciprocation, knowing others wanted to be regarded with interest.

Sutcliffe moved, grasping the arm of his chair and resettling as he sighed. “I was on call in the hospital when he and his dad came in. They were out fishing and Will- he was eight, at the time- slipped and hit his head on the rocks getting out of the boat. He had a concussion and had to spend the night for observation but was fine otherwise, and his dad was a wreck. Owned his own business, didn’t have any insurance. When I found out about Will’s... _unique_ disorder, I did what any sensible neurologist in my position would do.”

Hannibal tipped his head in affirmation, as though agreeing with the sentiment. “ _Pro bono_ healthcare in exchange for unlimited access to his brain. Or, I suppose _quid pro quo_ is the more appropriate terminology. A give and take between two parties.”

Sutcliffe grinned, shifting once more so he was now leaning forward, elbows braced on the surface of his desk. “It’s a very rare thing to discover, rarer still to see it in a still-developing mind. To be able to watch him grow and see his brain change with each stage and how it would affect him. Surely you can see the merit in it as well, given your shift into psychiatry.”

“I’ve always found the projected images of the mind to be a compelling study, yes. And Will Graham is no exception. Though I wonder if the give and take arrangement has been skewed against his favor,” he mused, watching as Sutcliffe’s face fell, a pinched expression tightening his features. As if in explanation, he added, “He doesn’t seem to be too fond of your articles.”

Sutcliffe huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Will is...in denial of many things. Ever since he was young, he’s been very guarded and closed off- a defense mechanism, to keep himself from mirroring people too much. Being _the weird kid who always copies other kids_ didn’t earn him a lot of friends growing up. He doesn’t like knowing people can see into his brain and publish the things he thinks he’s better at hiding than he is. The articles are a direct confrontation with what he tries to deny, so I’m not surprised at all to hear he’s spoken to you about them. I’ve not been spared his attitude either, on that front,” he said, ending the note on a soft, almost fond laugh. As though recalling the young boy in his prepubescent anger, when cursing and aggression was something novel and charming instead of teenage rebellion.

Hannibal rose a brow. “Things he tries to deny? His violent tendencies, you mean?”

Sutcliffe sighed, frowning at the reminder of the boy’s more current medical dilemma, scratching his chin. “Yes, exactly those. Some articles- I’ll admit- aren’t too favorable,” he confessed with some hesitation, looking uncomfortable. “He displays an alarming amount of tendencies required for a diagnosis of psychopathy, a direct contradiction to his empathy disorder.”

“Nothing to be sneered at, I think. After all, the most notable and oft deferred to trait is a lack of empathy. Will certainly doesn’t lack that.”

“Which makes it all the more interesting, doesn’t it? An empath donning the mask of a psychopath. It’s the most notable, though by far and large not the only one. Honestly, the lack of empathy is the only thing that doesn’t show up on him.” He held out a hand, counting off on his flicking fingers as he spoke. “Impulse control, shallow affect, inability to perform long-term planning, pathological lying, manipulation, promiscuity-”

“Promiscuity?” he asked, cutting him off. It was a rude thing to do, but really he was well aware of the markers of psychopathy and Sutcliffe was wearing dangerously close to condescension. “From what I’ve seen with Will he’s far too reserved for such activities.”

Sutcliffe huffed. “He had a health screening a few years back that was positive for gonorrhea. Eventually, he admitted to having a friend in his program at school that he fools around with. He gets tested more frequently though and hasn’t had a problem since,” he said in a rush, dismissively with a flourishing flick of his wrist. “Listen, Will is...he’s not a _bad_ kid, okay? I like him. He’s a little rough around the edges but who can blame him? He’s drawn a few short straws in life.”

Hannibal reclined in his chair, inhaling slowly. “I’ve noticed. Is his father always so...” he paused, trying to find the right word. The one that toed the line between honest and tactful. It was likely that Sutcliffe and William were, at the very least, close acquaintances. Eight years was a long time to study someone, after all.

“Flakey?” Sutcliffe said, crooked grin in place at having caught Hannibal’s predicament. “He means well but he’s been lighting the candle from both ends since his wife died. And Will...he doesn’t help. He’s a very trying kid. He’s naturally good at manipulating to get what he wants and he’s not above lying and turning on others if it benefits him. All standard fare for a psychopath.”

“Standard fare for all adolescents, as well. There’s a reason we don’t diagnose minors with personality disorders. Manipulation comes easily and most learn it from the adults in their lives; for their underdeveloped minds, it’s less an imposition on others than a way to get what they want,” he mused, lips twitching minutely before pulling into a flat line. _“_ This for that. _Quid pro quo.”_

Sutcliffe's smile faltered.

_~x~_

Thursday Came in short order. Seven in the evening.

Or, more precisely. Six fifty-eight in the evening.

Will strode through the door, setting his backpack on the floor beside the chaise before beginning his erratic pacing. Hands slid down the slanted frame of the ladder, gripped the rungs, and held himself from them.

“Are you hungry tonight, Will?” Hannibal asked, sitting in the chair opposite the one intended for the young boy, legs crossed. He considered, briefly, mentioning his visit with Doctor Sutcliffe- his evening spent reading Will’s file- just to see how he would react to the subtle betrayal. But the spontaneous thought was quickly stoppered, buried away. The momentary entertainment would fade, and he would be left with a Will that trusted him _even less._

“Ate before I came,” was the response, and Hannibal smiled. Will had a way with words, too, he surmised. While Hannibal was skilled at hidden insults and cruelty beneath delicate bows of crepe paper, Will could make something innocent sound barbed. He did not hide the insult, try to bury it with a silver tongue, and smooth the edges.

He _wanted_ the intent to be obvious. He _wanted_ it to hurt.

“I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself. Now, what would you like to talk about?” Hannibal said, pretending to not see the flash of annoyance in Will’s eyes when his manipulations were meant with a blank wall.

He was talented at it- Sutcliffe was right in that. But Will failed to realize that Hannibal didn’t just need to feed him to feel full, nourished on the sight of his pink mouth closing around his artfully prepared food. His attempt at denying Hannibal had failed the moment he walked through the door at six fifty-eight.

He was early for his appointment.

~x~

Will was halfway to the bus stop when his phone pinged, the vibration harsh against his chilled leg. He scowled, slowing his steps as he fumbled into his pockets, breath visible in thin wisps. His fingers ached as he unlocked his phone, regretting turning down Doctor Lecter’s offer to drive him to the bus station again.

He was in a foul mood, and the psychiatrist seemed an ideal candidate to take his aggression out on. He was angry and surly and wanted to tear the cleverly designed mask from Lecter's face. He wanted to make it slip, dismantle that sincere insincerity to see what sat beneath. But Lecter proved to be more tolerable to his temper than others- if he didn’t know better, he might have thought the man was amused by it.

Which, of course, only flayed his nerves more, making them raw and exposed.

Now he was hungry, cold, _and_ lacking the satisfaction of having seen the good doctor slip from his disguise. And worse yet, he felt _bad_ that he had been so rude. Through all his _off-ness (slightly to the left of normal-ness)_ the doctor had been one of the kinder ones he met. Doctor Bloom was right- he was patient and nonjudgmental, even when Will tried his best to be undeserving of such.

His phone lit up when he unlocked it, red flag settled over the envelope icon, and he clicked to see the new message. Unknown number.

‘ _You should be more careful’_

He stilled, glancing at the words with narrowed eyes. He raised his head, just in time for something- _someone_ \- to collide sharply with his back and knock him to the concrete sidewalk below. He gasped, air slipping from his lungs with the force of his fall, a heavy weight settling on him. Chest compressed, ribs buckling between the solid pavement below and the _someone_ on top. His phone fell from his grasp, and his hands scrambled uselessly for it, choking on his breath and panic-

Laughter filled the air, and he flinched, recognizing the erratic and hollow sound.

The energy that had been focused on freeing himself was redirected into bucking motions, rolling onto his hip to beat his fists against Matthew’s shoulder.

“ _What the fuck is wrong with you!”_ he seethed through his chattering teeth, frustration mounting in him at the boy.

Matthew continued to laugh, raising his hands in front of his face as though Will’s punches swinging in weak, pathetic arches were nothing at all. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. You just looked so focused and I honestly thought you would hear me,” he said, and Will scowled at the explanation, using his elbow to knock sharply against Matthew’s sternum.

He hissed, sliding beside Will and held a hand to his chest, wincing at the radiating pain. _“Ow!”_

“What are you doing out here?” Will asked, rising to a stand and brushing the front of his clothes off before finding his phone. A thin fracture ran across the corner, his plastic case sitting two feet away.

“You weren’t in school today and I wanted to see what you were up to,” he said, as though it were obvious. He rolled his shoulder. “Turns out it was boring.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Of course it was boring, I was at doctors appointments all day. Next time pick a more interesting target for your stalking,” he said, frowning at his own joke. Matthew’s eyes were bright underneath the street lamp, skin pinched pink in the cold. _Oh._

_Matthew was practicing._

The realization was a physical thing, a shudder trembling down his spine. Matthew said nothing, though Will knew his mouth would be tilted in a smirk, his smile like a knife. He enjoyed Will- too much, too intensely. He enjoyed annoying him and clinging to him and teasing him and Will tolerated it. He wasn’t very sociable, but Matthew was less a social need than he was a grounding one. A reminder that no matter how insane or unstable he felt, at least he wasn’t alone.

Even if Matthew took far more pleasure in his instability than Will did.

Even when that pleasure _terrified_ Will.

Even when the darker parts of Will admired that pleasure.

“Your old therapist was hotter,” Matthew said and even though Will knew it was a taunt- meant to press at the buttons that Matthew knew _exactly_ how to press and enjoyed pressing because he just simply _enjoyed_ Will- he lurched forward. Spring-loaded, _reactionary._

He pinned Matthew to the ground, hands easily forming a cradle around his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one a few times. Couldn't get it to feel just right but hopefully the next chapter will be smoother.
> 
> Next up: Hannibal stops Will from making a big mistake. Will is grateful for many things. Matthew is horny for Will- but who isn't?


	7. Lean Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you feel disingenuous, Will?”
> 
> “I feel...” he paused, lips pinched in thought, eyes once more finding the softened haze of the cars before them- gold and red lights smeared by water. “Blurry.” Obscured by rain, separated from the world. Rotating on an axis that ran counter-clockwise to everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this last night, but I was really tired after work and I laid down to rest my eyes and I woke up 14 hours later with my fiance telling me he slept on the couch because I seemed like I needed some uninterrupted sleep. He was right apparently.

**Chapter Six: Lean Meat**

Matthew laughed, even as the sound became strained beneath Will’s hands which pressed down on his windpipe. _Crushed into it._ He could feel the tendons constrict, the breath that became lodged and strangled just beneath his palm. Matthew sputtered, a hand curling around Will’s, fingernails dragging over the thin skin. His body was lax beneath Will, one knee rising to press between, sliding in the hollow space beneath his ribs.

A challenge. A dare.

He didn’t think Will would do it.

Will was a boy with the brain of a killer who desperately wanted to cut it out of him, excise it like a tumor.

His clasp tightened, Matthew choking on a cough.

“Will?”

The sound of his name dragged him into reality, pulled him away from the _sensations_. The sensations of life slowly seeping into the nothingness, a heartbeat coming to a stilted march. The sensations of a breath lodged beneath his hands but never moving passed that point, his hands holding someone on the precipice. Knowing he could press in, cut it short and end the knotted, half-breath from coming through dry and chapped lips. Knowing he could be merciful if he deigned, leaning back and letting life back through those straining and burning lungs.

But the sound of that _Will_ made the sensation come to a sharp end, awareness striking through him all at once. As though he were encased in glass, shattering with the utterance of his name so that the world- the quiet Baltimore street, the howl of the wind as it collided against brick buildings- came to him all at once. The sidewalk beneath his knees was hard and gritted, and the air was so cold that each sharp inhalation felt like a knife slipping between ribs, fingers aching as they twitched and pulled back-

Awareness came to him, and he grunted with the realization that he had held his _friend_ down and clamped down on his throat with every intention of watching the laughter fade from his dark eyes.

He jumped back- a full-body motion that knocked his tail bone to the ground and sent a shock-wave through him- and scrambled to his feet.

Matthew coughed, his own hand caressing the red skin of his throat. The sound was a gurgle, bubbling from his dry and peeling lips.

It made something clutch in Will’s chest.

Footsteps approached, and his heart undulated, plummeted at the sight of Doctor Lecter standing before him. _No no no no no no-_

“Are you alright, Will?” he asked, concern pressing lines into his face, shadows crawling beneath his high-arched cheekbones. His voice was warm, a low and soothing timber with the smooth accent curling into the bellies of the words. Making them full and rich.

Will opened his mouth, snapped it closed.

He was aware- on the periphery of his vision, in a distant world that dissolved away from his own- that Doctor Lecter knelt down to pull Matthew up, a steadying hand keeping the boy from falling over. Aware that Lecter’s gaze fell from Matthew’s face to his neck, where the impression of Will’s fingers would linger. _Evidence._

He waited for the moment the glass would shatter further, shards becoming dust and fragments. The moment Lecter would call the police and report the incident.

_An assault._

The moment the reality would twist at its knees and his mind flicked with all the things he should be doing. Running, first and foremost. Though pursuit was not sustainable. Plead for understanding though slipping into a delusional state was hardly a case for mercy. Take hold of reality, reshape it, and change it to suit his needs. _Matthew attacked him first, and it was dark and he had no way of knowing-_

The moment never came. Lecter turned to Matthew and said, “Did you drive here?”

A grin slipped onto his face. Crooked. “Mmhmm,” he hummed, the sound coarse even though his lips didn’t once part to make it and _God, Will was responsible for the roughened tone, the grating noise that slipped through his bruise larynx-_

“Go home,” Lecter said, a voice that was neither warmed in concern nor arched in anger. Neutral.

_Sincerely insincere._

Matthew swallowed. “I was going to drive Will-”

“I’ll be bringing Will home,” Lecter interrupted. “I’m not sure what you two were fighting about it, but I’d feel more comfortable if you were separate.”

_Fighting._

_He thought they were fighting._

Will stumbled over in his relief, unaware of how unsteady he had become while he waited for the moment that never came. His stomach twisted, tightly wound and he was thankful for so many things in such quick succession it overwhelmed him. Thankful for the emptiness in his gut which prevented him from hunching over and vomiting only a few doors down from Lecter’s office. Thankful for the dark blanket of a winter’s night, shadows swallowing his sins and consuming them, bones and all. Thankful for the twisted _whatever_ it was in Matthew’s brain that made him smirk instead of telling the truth. Thankful that Matthew found it _fun_. Thankful that Doctor Lecter thought they were fighting and not that Will was _strangling him._

His adrenaline was hot in his veins, and he was thankful for Doctor Lecter stopping him before he killed Matthew.

He trembled with the surge of hormones, feeling constricted by his tightly bundled clothes, and he was thankful for the grounding sound of his name in that voice.

“Will, is that your phone?” Lecter asked, and Will blinked as he glanced at the ground where he had dropped his phone in his attack. He reached for it, starting to bend at the waist only for Matthew to dip down and grab it, holding it out for him.

It had shattered more from his own mindless tossing, rough scrapes curling over the edge and thin slivers- like the crack of a bolt of lightning to the earth. “Thank-” Will started to say, the rest of his words swallowed when Matthew kissed him.

It wasn’t the first time Matthew kissed him, though it was the first time he was sober during it.

It was less...pleasant an experience without the numbing buzz silencing his brain. Too many thoughts from too many people that were only half him were filling his skull at the moment, and he whipped away from the lips before Matthew was ready to relent.

“Call me later,” Matthew said, the words warm and moist as they curled around Will’s ear, the boy smoothing a hand over Will’s waist as he passed. He crossed the street without looking, and Will scoffed at the familiar car he would have seen if he wasn’t so focused on his unsatisfied anger. The old Camry, a green so dark it appeared black in the night- a dent rippling over the front passenger side from where Matthew ran into a tree last year.

They stood in silence, Will and Lecter watching as he started the car, the roar of the engine a cacophony of sound on the quiet Baltimore street. The warm amber glow of his headlights cut through the air, slicing the world in two; between darkness and light. Lecter was waiting, seemingly for Matthew to leave.

When he finally did, minutes later, cutting the wheel too sharply as he pulled from the street parking and thumping his horn, Lecter turned to Will, an indiscernible expression on his face.

Will exhaled a breath. “Thanks...The bus should be here-”

“I’ll be driving you home,” Lecter said again, lowering his chin and raising a brow. “This is not up for argument.”

Will swallowed, jerking his head in a nod. His mouth felt dry, words an impossibility, and he followed the older man as he lead him to his car, opening the passenger side and waiting for him to slide in. He hesitated, anxiety and fear pooling into a viscous heat in his stomach, twisting and coiling. What if it was a ruse to bring Will to a hospital? Make him think he saw nothing and was bringing him home but instead, he would pull into that circular parking lot meant for ambulances and emergencies, doctors waiting to drag him inside with a needle at the ready should he resist?

Once more, he considered running.

“Will, please step inside,” Lecter said, snapping his attention. He wondered, as he settled in and heard the soft thud of the door closing behind him, how Lecter managed to do that. Say his name in such a way that it became grounding, a sharp tug to the string around his ankle when he drifted into something nebulous.

_He said his name often, liked the taste of it in his mouth._

Had he been...conditioning him?

The thought made something like repulsion settle behind his teeth.

The car shifted with weight as Lecter sat in the driver’s seat, twisting around to lay his briefcase in the backseat. With the motion came the smell of his cologne, something layered and complex that Will could only describe as woody and masculine with a fresh twist of citrus. Something expensive that was sold not on a shelf but in a display case in a store that was dark and smelled of too many things at once. Nothing like Will’s own cologne, the perfunctory gift given to him each Christmas alongside some other staples- a few paperbacks, lure making supplies.

He didn’t wear it often, the smell harboring a _too-muchness_ that lingered in his nose and made a low throb settle in his head. His dad never seemed to notice the mostly filled bottles that cluttered up the sink.

He was aware that he had dedicated too much time to the consideration of his therapist’s cologne, the car moving with a grace that mirrored the driver along the streets until he made his way to the ramp for I95. Silence sitting between them- silence and the smell of expensive cologne with _something, something, and citrus_ notes.

“I like your cologne,” he said before he could stop himself, stomach twisting and collapsing in on itself. A combination of hunger and anxiety, a vibrating energy in his bones that made him feel as if his skin was too tight. As though he might burst through at any moment.

He winced at the sound of his own words, regretting them instantly.

“Thank you,” was all he said, letting the silence remain undisturbed between them.

It was ridiculous. Will wanted to open the window and scream. His therapist had very nearly caught him trying to _kill_ someone, and now he was just supposed to sit still in a silence that felt oppressive, crushing his chest the way his hands had crushed Matthew’s windpipe? Sit in the smell of expensive leather and expensive _something something citrus_ cologne while his mind flitted between all the things he could not control? The feel of Matthew’s breath beneath his hands, captured and held hostage by the pressure. The glint in his eyes, the curl of his lips turning violet as he smiled a deoxygenated smile. The sound of his name snapping like a rubber hand to his scalp, pulling him back in place and dragging him from the thoughts and the _power_ -

“You’re hyperventilating, Will,” Lecter intoned, sounding more inconvenienced than concerned and Will huffed out a laugh that cut through his jagged breaths.

“So I am,” he said, panted and strained.

Lecter sighed, hands shifting down the steering wheel. Will caressed the bag in his lap, holding them in the same position.

“Just because your appointment has come to an end doesn’t mean we can’t talk. And it seems there is an elephant in the car with us,” he said, tone tugging at the humor in his words.

Will stiffened, fingers clutching the canvas fabric in his hands. He wondered once more if Lecter was lying about what he saw. If he had seen Will’s fingers around Matthew’s throat.

“I..” he started, swallowing. Lecter liked to make Will say things without prompting, skirting around the obvious. Perhaps it was a way of giving him control over an uncontrollable situation. Perhaps it was to see him struggle to disentangle his tongue. Will could never decide which. Sincerely insincere.

He was feeling generous tonight, throwing Will a lifeline.

“Should I be prepared next week with resources for abusive relationships?”

The question made Will snort. “N-no...it’s not...that wasn’t...”

“I saw him attack you, I know he started the altercation,” he said, and Will furrowed his brow. Not at what Lecter said, but the implication that nestled itself within the spaces between each letter. _I saw you strangling him, I know it was in defense._

_'Paranoid. You're being paranoid,'_ he told himself, pushing the thoughts away.

Will licked his lips, using the motion to stall as he considered his own words carefully. “He’s...we’re not a couple or anything. He just... _enjoys...”_ he hesitated, trying to find the right word to explain it. A word that explained the attack, the hollow threat, the hands around his neck- the kiss. None of them seemed right, too small to contain the strangeness that was his relationship (non-friendship) with Matthew. _Enjoys teasing me, annoying me, hurting me, making me hurt him-_

“He just enjoys me,” he said, with a finality he hoped would end the discussion.

It did not.

“Enjoys you generally comes with more pleasant connotations. That didn’t seem pleasant. I’m worried about you, Will. That perhaps you’re trying to fill a loneliness created by your condition with those not worthy of it. Are you so afraid of being alone?” Lecter asked, and the question lodged in Will’s throat, strangling sounds from him that tasted distinctly like _desperation_.

There was that response again, the fight or flight response. A defense mechanism that had become second nature to him, a part of him. The question cut beneath his skin, embedded in his nerves. _Raw and vulnerable._

“I’m not afraid-”

“Yes, you are,” Lecter intoned. It was a rude thing to do and he knew the doctor prided himself in etiquette. But, he supposed, _lying_ was also a rude thing to do. Their individual rudeness canceled the other out. “You live your life with so much fear you’ve constructed walls to keep it out. Those same walls have turned into your prison.”

Will scowled, but remained silent, eyes turning to focus out the window. It had started raining, globules of water shivering on the glass, burring the lights from passing cars. It gave the world outside an ethereal quality, a nebulous and uncertain existence beyond the clear and precise lines of the car’s interior, unmarred by the rain.

It felt as though he and Lecter were all that existed and for a second he blamed on his crippling mind and paranoia, he thought Lecter had made it rain solely to inspire such a feeling.

The man wasn’t a god or something so preternatural.

“I’m not afraid of loneliness,” he said, his voice soft. Trapped and bubbled within the world that existed just for them. “I prefer it, actually.”

“You think you do,” Lecter said, and it would have irritated Will- _so presumptuous_ \- if not for the tone he used. Neither condescending and clinical as though doling out a diagnosis nor pitying and filled with manufactured sadness. It was neutral- sincerely insincere. “What are you afraid of, then?”

Will rubbed his hand over his face, pulling his features down for the brief, suspended moment before they snapped back in place when his dragging hand fell; as though trying to pull his own mask down. “I’m afraid of...not knowing who I am.

Lecter glanced at him for a few lingering seconds before turning his focus back on the road. “An interesting way to word it. Your fear lies not in what you may or may not be, but in the uncertainty of that. Pretending to be something you’re not, or having your stability and sanity so fractured you lose sight of who you are. Do you feel disingenuous, Will?”

“I feel...” he paused, lips pinched in thought, eyes once more finding the softened haze of the cars before them- gold and red lights smeared by water. “Blurry.” Obscured by rain, separated from the world. Rotating on an axis that ran counter-clockwise to everyone else.

“And your...friend who enjoys you- does he share your feelings? Does he, too, feel blurry?”

Will laughed, offering a grimace that contorted into a smile. “Not at all. He knows exactly what he is, that’s part of what he enjoys. He enjoys how much I hate it.”

“Hate it or envy it?”

Will snapped his head up at the words, staring at Lecter’s ear with an unusual degree of scrutiny. The tone was the same as always- sincerely insincere- but it felt like an accusation.

Lecter continued, either unaware of Will’s sharpness or unconcerned. “You don’t gravitate to him because you’re alone and want the comfort of feeling less so. Surely, there are other students in your program who could fulfill such a need. You prefer _that_ one though because you admire his ability to live without constraints or uncertainty.” He paused, as though giving his words time to fester in Will’s brain, time to meld to his tongue and digest in his belly. He wasn’t surprised that Lecter determined Matthew’s _condition_ , just as he wasn’t surprised at the sensation of his heart rising in his throat, untethered from his chest.

He tried to swallow it back down.

“Even if what he is is something grotesque and crude and monstrous, he is at least those things with confidence. One should not underestimate the value of acceptance, of ourselves and others. Everyone wants to be seen and accepted, but no one is more necessary to our needs than ourselves. He sees and accepts himself, and because of that- so do you,” Lecter finished, and Will found himself shifting to his side, turned away from Lecter in a position that he was certain was being psychoanalyzed. His head thrummed, bounced against the window with the motion of the car, and he frowned in the safe shadows he created.

Hiding from Lecter was easier to do than hiding from himself, however, realizing with bitterness that Lecter was _right._

_Smug, arrogant bastard._

“He’s going to kill someone, you know. Eventually, he’ll do it,” he mumbled, returning to his earlier attempts at dismantling Lecter’s disguise with half-hearted want.

“I know,” Lecter said.

“Most people would be concerned by that,” Will muttered, thankful he amended it from the phrase he wanted to say. The one that felt too direct. _Normal people would be concerned by that._

He could almost hear the shrug in Lecter’s voice. “There is nothing I can do. You more than anybody should know someone can’t be imprisoned for crimes they may commit. And I am not his doctor to prescribe treatment.”

“What _would_ you prescribe for wanting to kill someone? A home-cooked meal?” Will taunted, but it lacked any bite.

“Of course. What better medicine is there than nourishment?” Lecter’s voice was warm, as though he had made a joke he found very amusing.

The rest of the drive was passed in silence, aside from Will's occasional direction once they turned off the interstate, Will keeping his body turned if only because twisting back felt too much like a compromise. His eyelids were growing heavy, the lull of the car always a soothing balm- one of the few things that eased him into sleep that wasn’t found in orange-tinted bottles, white caps that twisted and unsealed with a pinch.

He was just on the edge of sleep when the car crawled to a stop, Lecter’s voice calling to him in that grounding way. He sat up, blinking rapidly.

And maybe it was because he had been so close to sleep, yanked from slumber just at the moment when he was most vulnerable, his walls crumbled and dismantled in exhaustion. But he glanced at Doctor Lecter, offering him a small frown as he said, “Sorry I was so rude tonight.”

Lecter smiled. “Happens to the best of us,” he said, his words placating.

“I lied. I didn’t eat before the appointment. I was just having a bad day and was annoyed that you probably had something made for me like you knew I would want it,” Will admitted.

“My apologies. Making and serving food is for me, an act of consideration. Sharing something that I’ve made in the hopes you’ll share with me. I should be more courteous, however. It is presumptuous of me,” he said.

Will nodded, holding his backpack to his chest and opening the door. He didn’t glance at Lecter as he said, “It is. But if you like doing it...it’s fine.”

He closed the door without a goodbye, knowing Lecter would understand the intent behind his words. It felt like a compromise, but one he was willing to give.

~x~

The school program was small- eleven students total, driven in from different school districts and counties to be locked in one room together Monday to Friday. A zoo, sticking all the feral animals together and watching nature play out before their eyes. A danger to themselves and others- but no one really cared about the first half. Only the second. The others. A danger to themselves was a tragedy. A danger to others was a threat.

And threats were best kept separate- chaperoned to the cafeteria only to be shuffled back to eat at the same desks they did their algebra and chemistry and English at. Treated like prisoners as though in practice for their future- they were even generously allotted outdoors time, weather permitting.

Matthew didn’t even try to hide the bruises that segmented his throat, the specter of Will’s touch closing in on them. He offered Will a lascivious wink when he settled at his desk- the same desk for each class, for each meal.

It made Will blush, warmth creeping up his collar and curling around his ears. Something pooled at the base of his spine, and he felt fluid. Like he was tipped and spilling over. Too many parts of him- conflicting parts- reacted to the violet bruises on pale skin, like single brushstrokes to a canvas.

Disgust at his lack of control, at the thing he had almost done- a word that sat on his tongue but would not move further- voiced into creation. Grateful that Lecter had stopped him, reminding him of who and what he was and using the timber of his voice to ground Will enough to end the _fight._ Grateful for the unspoken words and too many shadows that kept him from being carted away in cuffs- _an immediate danger to himself and others._ Anger that Matthew had toyed with him to begin with, placing him in a position he knew would trigger him. He was a gun, loaded and cocked and Matthew loved the feel of the trigger beneath his finger.

So many thoughts, yet he preferred them. Preferred the ones of disgust and self-loathing and regret to the ones that simmered below the surface.

The _satisfaction_ , the tremor of _delight_.

The cool and sloping high of _power_.

He averted his gaze when Chilton entered the room, coming to an ambling halt in front of the two teenagers. He swallowed thickly, unable to look at the eyes that were no doubt shifting between Matthew’s throat and Will’s hands, settled on the desk because he would get in trouble if they were not in sight.

“Don’t worry, Doc. We used a condom,” Matthew said, and Will resisted the desire to kick him in the shin.

“Crude as ever, Matthew. I suppose safe sex will be the focus of your counseling session today, Will, provided you of course show up,” Chilton drawled. Will's face flushed at Matthew's lie, though it did succeed in pulling the man away, no longer interested in the bruised neck and slender hands.

~x~

Thursday. Six thirty-seven in the evening.

Hannibal held his phone in his hand, shrugging his coat on as he searched for the contact information. Alana had left him a voicemail the evening prior, bemoaning the sudden distance in their friendship as of late in her coy way. It was not unfounded, his carefully maintained person suit wavering somewhat in the last few weeks. He found himself too occupied to concern himself with all the pomp and circumstance of hosting, especially when the conversation would seem so dull in comparison.

He wondered if it was akin to the way Will might feel, eating the elegant and perfectly prepared dishes Hannibal offered him only to return home to something far more modest. Meager. If he found his own nourishment in Hannibal that made all others vague and unsatisfying.

Before her referral, they had been dancing around a courtship. Something that was of interest to Hannibal if only for the layers it would strip away, the raw flesh beneath the hardened skin. People were more vulnerable in relationships, made fresh and new again when they were otherwise waning in intrigue.

And, her growing profile work with the BSU was something he wouldn’t mind clutching to.

He would call her, apologize for his lack of flexibility as of late and extend an invitation to dinner. The call would not linger as she knew his standing appointment with Will would begin shortly, and she would not blame him for having to keep the conversation short.

He opened the door to his office, intending to get some fresh air after too long of breathing in his last client’s fragrant perfume, and came to a stop in the threshold, one hand holding his phone, the other curled on the doorknob.

Will was already sitting in the waiting room, backpack at his feet, and a book in his hands, the spine crinkled in his rough handling. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, eyes glancing at Hannibal’s phone and thick peacoat. “It’s okay, I know I’m early. I’ve got a book,” he said, holding it out as though Hannibal might not have caught it.

_1984_ by George Orwell, the large and distinctive iris on the cover mirroring the same blue of Will’s eyes.

“Nonsense, there’s no reason to make you wait if we’re both prepared. Come on in,” he said, dropping his phone back into his pocket and extending the door open. Will followed, holding his backpack by one strap and his book in the other.

“Are you sure? If you need to call someone-”

“Nobody so important I can’t call them later,” Hannibal assured, closing the door with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now seems as good a time as any to plug my Tumblr: Reneehartblog. Its intent was for writing but it has devolved into nonsense with the occasional writing update/sneak peek/prompt fill. Life finds a way I guess. 
> 
> Next chapter: William attempts to be a dad with limited success, Alana finally gets her dinner invite but it's really just an excuse for our favorite cannibal to talk about his favorite patient.


	8. Fresh Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana began to speak, only for the words to be cut off sharply by the ringing of his cellphone, vibrating along his thigh. She smiled humorously. “Saved by the bell at having to come up with answers I don’t have?” she joked as Hannibal reached into his pocket. His thumb hovered, ready to swipe in the direction of the red icon when he caught sight of the name. Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may change the title of this fic. I didn't have one in mind when I posted so I just did a portion from the quote that inspired it. I was thinking of changing it to 'A Danger to Himself and Others'. Sums up the plot neater I think. I won't change it for a few chapters.
> 
> This is the part where I admit to having no idea what I was doing until like 2 chapters ago. Write first plot later is my motto I guess.

**Chapter Seven: Fresh Kill**

There was snow on the ground, snow in the air. With it came a chill, the biting sort of wind that pinched cheeks and noses and made them numb, made them paradoxically burn with the barest of caresses. The gun should have been cold in Will’s hands, finger sliding along the trigger guard as though biding its time until it could slide in place.

It had been years since he last went hunting with his dad, a hobby that became less appealing with each neurosis and psychosis that was slapped upon him. Handing him a gun must have felt too much like danger, as though the only thing keeping Will’s impulses in check was the absence of a weapon in his hand.

But he was here now, feet crunching as the snow fractured with each step, crackling and splintering the thin layer of ice that had hardened on the forest floor. It was cold, the soles of his feet aching from within his too thin boots. His breath fanned between his lips, wisps of air that hung suspended before vanishing.

“Over here,” his dad called to him, his voice a whisper. A hand was raised, two fingers curling in the air before pointing ahead of him, between the trees.

There, in the distance, was a stag, its crown of antlers disappearing into the dead branches so that it and the trees were one; the duality of nature. The great beast bowed its head, sniffed at the snow.

Will’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of it, slowly raising the gun and focusing his gaze through the sight finders. His thumb flicked the safety off, the sound almost deafening in the quiet of the still forest. The stag was undisturbed, the trees balanced on his head. His antlers were the branches, and the branches were his antlers. Growing cyclically together.

His finger slipped pass the trigger guard, resting firmly on the trigger before pulling it back.

The barrel exploded, a plume of smoke emitting from the muzzling and the air charred with the metallic heat and pungent scent of gunpowder. He flinched with the recoil, shoulder tossing back. 

The stag bellowed, head tossing back as it gave a desperate kick out to an unseen attacker before stumbling, falling to the ground. The forest seemed to fall with it, as though the world collapsed with the beast that was half trees, dead branches with frozen bark crumpled to the ground.

Will ran towards it, cold snow cracking like glass with each step, bounding over rocks and fallen trees and coming to a halt at the dead and bleeding corpse.

No longer the stag, with the dark feathered head and bones erupting from its skull to form branches. Gone the long and delicately arched legs that bent at a grotesque angle, hooves sinking into the snow.

In its place was the prone and bleeding form of William Graham, sunk into the snow like a shallow grave of ice, blood blossoming on his chest like the unfurling petals of a rose. He choked, blood slicking his lips and slipping in rivulets down his chin, sloping down the curve of his cheek. His eyes- Will’s eyes, shifting with the light, encompassing all the colors and trapping them within the spokes of his iris- flitted back and forth. From the wound in his chest to his son settling on his knees beside him, observing his kill with a detached expression.

Will pulled the hunting knife from his pocket, sliding the blade from its leather sheath and readying it. It had been a long time since he hunted; a long time since he helped his father gut a deer. But he remembered the basics- the correct amount of pressure to apply- enough to cut through the thick skin and abdominal muscles, but not so much he would cut the intestines. It was important to keep the meat clean.

“ _Please-”_ William begged, the sound a gurgling bubble, wet from blood and spit.

Will ignored the pleas, arm raising high before swinging down in an arch, blade shining in the moonlight- as if he held it in his hands, a sliver of the moon itself. The knife came down, cutting beneath the sternum and causing his dad to emit a howl of pain, back bending like a bow as the knife continued its descent-

Will awoke with a groan, a sharp pain radiating from his shoulder, sending waves of anguish to tremble down his spine. Awareness came to him in increments, as if his mind and body did not awaken at the same time. He was aware of the pain first- too hard to ignore, and he rolled onto his back to alleviate the pressure. His back was met with something hard and cold and not his bed and he startled, sitting up to find himself surrounded by the still darkness of the woods.

It was then that he was aware of the cold seeping into him, his bare legs purple as they spread out before him, the thin boxers not nearly enough for the cold that came with autumn night. Dirt spread between his toes, dead blades of grass clinging to his skin from where he walked through the yard- still wet from the rain that pelted to the earth on and off the day prior.

Sleepwalking.

He had been sleepwalking.

He huffed out a breath, face taut and stretching with the motion. The world was a blur around him, his glasses left behind on his bedside table and he reached a hand out to feel the ground only to become aware of something else.

He threw the knife in his hand as far as his stiff muscles could manage, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. He felt the weight of it in his palm the entire way back home, like a brand, the memory of his dream playing like a film reel before his eyes.

~x~

William Graham found his son in the garage when he awoke Saturday morning, grease coating his hands and flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The wiry muscles in his arms flexed with his movements, pulling the pale skin taut. Skin that was dotted with fingerprints of grease, lined with pink seams that crossed over his veins; seams that had healed over long ago yet simultaneously remained fresh and bleeding.

“Haven’t seen you here in a while,” he said, Will glancing at him only for a moment before returning his focus to the car, hood propped up to reveal the mechanics beneath. Like a body open for surgery, he thought with a swallow.

Will shrugged, one hand disappearing into the cavern below, valves like the aortic chambers of the heart, oil tanks the lungs. Organs made of aluminum and bolts and twisted coils. “How old is this engine? It’s corroded around the cylinder head,” he asked.

“Original, probably. I can pick up a new one,” he said, smiling at the sight of Winston, sitting at Will’s feet as though in assistance. The blond fur around his ears was dirty, stained with grease from where Will had thoughtlessly pet him. He strode to the workspace counters, finding a clean cloth and running it under water from the sink. “I haven’t had much time to work on it, but business will slow down with the weather. We can get back to it. With any luck you’ll have your own car by spring.”

Will snorted. “I’ll need a permit and a license first.”

“We can work on that. Maybe not the license, the snow isn’t the best time to learn-”

“You didn’t have time in the summer,” Will muttered, bitterness making the words jagged.

William sighed, crouching down and rubbing the damp cloth over Winston’s head. “I’m trying, Will. Between work, your program and all the doctors-”

“There could be less doctors.”

“I’m not...I’m not arguing about this,” he said, standing and tossing the cloth in the sink with a wet plopping sound. The pressure was building in his head, sliding down the front of his skull and he regretted not taking the time to drink a cup of coffee before searching for his son. It was never easy speaking with him, each conversation pointed and ready to plunge between them with seemingly little provocation. As though he were punished for things he could not remember, a growing list of grudges that he would never be able to atone for if only because Will never gave him the chance.

Everything he did was _wrong._ Each word not enough, each action to small to matter to the boy.

He was stumbling in the dark, trying to navigate their relationship that was just moving further and further away.

“Matthew said he can take me driving,” Will said, standing up and gripping the lip of the car- the ribs, he envisioned, stretched apart beneath the folded sheath of skin.

“ _Matthew_ is too young to do that. You’ll both be ticketed,” he countered, feeling his frustration mount at the mention of the boy. “And that reminds me, Chilton called yesterd-”

“Of course he did,” Will interrupted in an exasperated sigh, plucking the thin rod from it’s standing position and guiding the hood down. He let it slam the last few inches, the noise like an explosion in the cluttered room, bouncing off the metal cabinetry. Will’s finger always seemed to sit in the pin of a grenade, waiting for the moment to detach.

“I thought we’ve talked about him. I don’t like you hanging around him, he’s a bad influence,” William said, trying and failing to keep his voice leveled.

Will snorted, grabbing the same cloth used to clean Winston’s head to wipe over his palms. Oil like blood on his hands. “Cuz I’m already such an angel. God forbid someone corrupt me.”

“He’s _different_ from you.”

“Is he?” Will said, his voice strained and high, reedy in an almost manic state. He tossed the towel to the counter, even though his hands were still dirty and tinted gray. “How different can two psychopaths be, really?”

William flinched at the word, striking and strumming through him with an aftershock that never seemed to end, only tapered and waned. “You’re not a...” he paused, swallowed on the diagnosis. Informal diagnosis; Will was too young to be considered as such by any reputable doctor but all the reputable doctors he had seen were waiting for the moment they could stamp the page and toss it. As though his brain would finish developing the moment he turned eighteen, a complete infrastructure with holes from all the prodding and fiddling around they did. Something they could classify and name hinging on a single day, so focused on what they would call Will in the future they failed to see the Will here in the present.

Or the Will that existed before, so long ago in a time that seemed of a distant world. Failed to see the Will that once tried to hide a stray he discovered during his walks in his room for a week, eventually to be discovered when he was caught shoplifting dog food for a pet they did not yet own. The same Will that once made him stop the car on the side of a road because he saw a dog dart into the forest and was worried about the recent bear sightings of the time. The Will that sat in the back to make sure their rescued dog wouldn’t be alone when they finally made it back to the car, hours later.

There were things he regretted, things said in a heat of the moment he couldn’t take back. And he knew the distance between him and his son was partly of his own making, too many missteps in his parenting for Will to forgive. He worked too much and traveled too much with his work, wasn’t there as often as he should be.

But he knew his son.

Knew that underneath the surliness and sharp tongue and the cruel thoughts that sat in his head and made so many frightened of him, he was soft. Beneath the diagnosis and the prognosis and all the other words that seemed so cluttered and clinic and detached, he was still the same boy who used to sit on his lap and steer the boat on their fishing trips, wade into the bayou as though the murky waters were as comfortable to him as a playground.

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “The doctors are just...unsure of what to call you. You don’t give a lot to work with-”

“I’ve given them _plenty_ ,” Will spat, lips pulling into a tight-lipped grimace. “And besides, they’re always telling me to be more sociable and normal.”

“Matthew isn’t the right choice,” William sputtered, trying to find the right words to describe the wiry and manic teenager without offending the other one before him, “You’re different than him, he takes too much joy in being the way he is. You need someone normal-”

“Normal people don’t want to be friends with me!” Will seethed, voice settled somewhere between anger and tears, jaw clenching with the admission. He skewed his lips, twisted them before turning for the door. “I’m going to take the dogs for a run.”

William was aware, in the moment between Will’s steps and his clicking call to Winston to come follow him, that there was an opportunity to say something. An opportunity to smooth out the altercation, to try to understand his son the way the young boy was capable of understanding everyone else. An opportunity to try and bridge some of the distance between them, to try and find his son that existed beneath the guarded layers and the anger.

He opened his mouth, closing it after a second of hesitation. He had yet to find the right thing to say to Will. He doubted he would find it now.

The door slammed closed between them, and William sighed. He would make it a point to get a new engine at least.

He could do that much right.

~x~

The evening began well enough, Hannibal thought as he twisted the corkscrew with practiced ease, uncorking the wine with a flourish that made Alana grin. “Tonight’s wine, a chardonnay from New York- a preferred state for such a wine. The long cold seasons slow the ripening of the grapes, meaning they must remain on the vine longer. You can almost taste the maturity that comes with it,” he mused, pouring the wine into two glasses before setting the bottle down. She accepted her glass with a thanks, bringing it to her nose and aerating it slowly.

“Apples?” she asked, a hopeful look pulling at her face.

“I feel as though you’re cheating- I did say New York, after all,” he teased, setting his glass down before serving their dinner. “It will pair well with tonight’s menu- salmon over a bed of quinoa and bright arugula, seasoned with champagne vinegar, pomegranate seeds, capers, and pork belly. The salmon has been seared in pork fat for an extra decadent taste.”

“One can handle only so much decadence, Hannibal,” she said as he finished serving them and sat at his own chair, holding his glass of wine to his nose and inhaling it as it swirled in the bulbous well. Apples, of course. But also pears and the subtle warmth of vanilla, the tannins pulling the wine from veering into too sweet. He watched from over the curved rim of his glass as she brought a bite to her lips- painted a deep red- and chewed thoughtfully.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” she said after swallowing, eyes bright. “I’ve never been too fond of fish but this is delicious. That pork fat is quite the trick.”

He smiled, setting his wine back as he took a bite of his own. “Perhaps the thing I enjoy most about cooking is learning all the new and interesting ways different flavors react to each other. Finding the ones that when paired together shine and create something entirely new and wonderful. And with winter around the corner, there’s no reason to show restraint,” he said, inclining his head in a silent laugh as she nodded her agreement.

“Amen to that. And I’ve found that stress eating has its merits with the new case Jack has me helping on,” she said, eating another bite of her salmon.

The evening became more interesting at that, and he tried not to seem too eager as he furrowed his brows in concern, set his fork and knife down. “What case is that?”

She made a fluttering motion with her hand. “Just this...they’re calling him the Minnesota Shrike. A bunch of college girls have gone missing with no evidence and-” she scoffed, blinked rapidly as she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry this really isn’t appropriate dinner conversation. I’d hate to ruin your beautiful meal with something so gruesome.”

“You are my friend, Alana. And if there is an opportunity for me to relieve your stress and burden by offering my own professional opinions, then I would hardly consider that ruining anything,” he implored, reaching a hand out to settle over her own, fingers brushing her knuckles in a display of comfort.

She glanced at the contact, a soft blush turning the apples of her cheeks pink. “If you’re sure,” she said with a sigh, making no move to pull her hand out from under Hannibal’s palm. It made him smile. “He brought one of the girls back, after she was reported missing. Not only is it a sharp turn from his usual MO, but it was incredibly risky. Her parents were home and we were still sending out uniforms and agents for interviews and updates. There had to have been a reason he took that risk but we just can’t find it.”

Hannibal pulled his hand back, folding his fingers together and reclining in his chair. “That is risky. Especially when he’s so far been successful with disposing of all the other bodies. What could be so different about this one?”

Alana began to speak, only for the words to be cut off sharply by the ringing of his cellphone, vibrating along his thigh. She smiled humorously. “Saved by the bell at having to come up with answers I don’t have?” she joked as Hannibal reached into his pocket.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet, I’ll be sending them to voicemail,” he mused, his tone light despite his ire at the interruption. She was always so hesitant to share her work with him, the victory a delightful taste in his mouth when she began to speak. It made his frustration with the poorly timed call was unwarranted.

It was _rude_ to call during dinner hours, after all.

His thumb hovered, ready to swipe in the direction of the red icon when he caught sight of the name. _Will Graham_.

He hadn’t called since that first night when he was locked outside of Hannibal’s office and Hannibal- in a desperate need to see him- invited him to this very dining room. It had been one of the more invigorating dinners experienced at the table, and he was unable to stop the curiosity that lit up his face, illuminated by the blue screen of the device. Unable to bring his thumb to the _end call_ option, knowing how rare Will’s words were. He held them tightly guarded behind his teeth, sparing little during his one hour sessions once a week.

Whatever could have happened to inspire Will to call outside that hour, when Hannibal wasn’t prying at pinched lips and sealed teeth?

“Is everything alright?” Alana asked, her humor replaced by concern at the obvious hesitation.

Hannibal glanced up at her as his phone vibrated for the third time in his palm. He was already rising from his seat. “My sincerest apologies, Alana. I fear this might be an emergency with one of my patients. Forgive the indiscretion and please, help yourself,” he said, departing to the kitchen and accepting the call on the fourth ring.

“Doctor Lecter,” he said, his tone neutral.

“Hello, Doctor,” Will began, and Hannibal found he had a new appreciation for phone calls that he did not have before. There was an intimacy to them, diametrically opposing the distance between the callers, the detached and mechanical tint of the receiver. Despite the fact that there were miles separating them, it seemed as though Will was speaking directly to him, voice curling into his ear. If he closed his eyes he could imagine the warm and moist brush of his breath that accompanied his words.

He wondered if Will’s phone was still cracked from when he dropped it, moments before _strangling_ his friend-

“Hello. May I ask who’s calling?” he asked, not wanting to let Will know that his number had been programmed into his phone.

“Oh, sorry, it’s...Will. Will Graham,” he answered.

“Will,” he said, infusing surprise into the utterance of his name. “Is everything alright?”

Will sighed, and Hannibal could practically see him, hesitating to release his clenched jaw and free the words he so clearly wanted to say. “N-no. I mean, it’s not...it’s not like an emergency,” he amended quickly, swallowing loudly enough that he could hear it through the phone. “I probably shouldn’t have even called-”

“Never question your instincts to reach out, Will,” Hannibal said, leaning against his counter and sparing a glance to the dining room. He wondered if Alana could hear him; if she heard the name Will and realized that the very same patient she spent months trying to coax out of his shell had called Hannibal of his own volition for _help_.

Something warm and without a name settled into the base of his spine, spread through his bones. Something not quite smug- it wasn’t so sour an emotion, kinder than the arrogance he normally hid beneath his facade.

“I um...I was just wondering if sleepwalking was a common side effect of my medication?”

The question surprised Hannibal, his curiosity already spilling over. Will seemed to have a way of that, taking a banal or even dull evening and turning it to intrigue with barely any thought, unaware of the effect he had.

It was a long time since someone had that much control over him, he realized with a frown.

“How long have you been sleepwalking, Will?” he said, saying the name for a dual effect now. To ground Will to the moment and to give Alana the chance to hear it over the gnashing of her teeth.

“I haven’t, just the one time. Last night I-” A pause. A hesitation. Wondering perhaps how much to share. “I woke up in the middle of the woods. I was about a mile out from my house and I had a….” He amputated the sentence, sputtering as he quickly added, “I used to sleepwalk, but I haven’t done it in years. But my medication was changed and I wondered if that could be why.”

Hannibal inclined his head, wondering what Will was going to say before pivoting the conversation. “Have you had any triggers similar to the ones you had when you first experienced it?”

He could almost see Will’s scowl when he said, “Nothing’s changed. They just stopped being a problem.”

Hannibal grabbed a knife that was set beside the sink, holding it as dug the tip into a bamboo cutting board idly. “If you don’t suspect environmental stimuli then it could likely be your medication, though I’m not really the best to answer that. I don’t know what medication you’re on or-”

“I have it all here, I can tell you,” Will interjected, voice drowned out by the sound of pills shaking in plastic bottles. “The new one is _Zoloft_ , they said for anxiety and mood-stabilizing, but I’ve got _Carbamazepine_ , three hundred millig-”

“Will, I’m sorry, but I truly can’t help you,” Hannibal said, genuine remorse in his words. He was planting the seeds of codependency in Will, and not being able to assist him so early in his mechanisms felt like a betrayal. “I don’t know your medication history. What you have or haven’t responded to and it would be irresponsible of me to try and interpret anything now. You’ll have to call the doctor who prescribed it.”

“I just thought that because you were a surgeon you would know,” Will said, his voice flat in resignation.

“I could know everything there is to know about pharmacology, and it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t know the patient history,” he explained, frowning as he added, “I’m sorry.”

When Will spoke, it was in a mumble, and Hannibal had to press the phone closer to his ear to hear the words. “It’s not your fault. Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re never a bother, Will. I sincerely hope we can determine the cause. There is always the chance it could be the result of stress and other psychological factors. Are you sure there’s nothing that comes to mind?”

Will laughed that wry laugh of his, no doubt accompanied by his not-right smile. _Painful._ “Oh, there’s plenty. But lucky for you, you’re off the clock.”

It was meant as a joke, but Hannibal’s response was sincere. “I’m never off the clock if you need help, Will. We can arrange for an emergency meeting, if you’d like, or continue talking now.”

Will hummed, as though considering the options before saying, “No, that’s okay. It’s probably just the medication, I’ll call my other doctor tomorrow.” A pause, and then, “But thank you.”

“Of course. Thank you for coming to me, Will. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“Don’t be. Sorry to call you. Have a good night,” Will said, the well wishes warm against Hannibal’s ear.

“Good night, Will. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Hannibal allowed himself a moment to linger in the kitchen, one hand curled over his phone, the other still gripping the knife that he twisted against the cutting board. It was likely the result of the _Zoloft_ , the SSRI reacting with an existing medication- a sleep aid, probably. Will mentioned once in their sessions that he struggled with insomnia, among other issues that tended to go hand in hand with parasomnia. Migraines and nightmares.

There was no real pharmacological treatment for violent behavior, medications given to treat other symptoms, or offered as guesses at worst. Anti-seizure medications were common, and mood stabilizers were oft prescribed though they were wrought with as many failures as they were successes.

Even without factoring in his empathy disorder, Will seemed destined to be another case study.

He deposited the knife back to the sink, returning to his dinner guest with an expression of contrition. “My apologies for the interruption, Alana, you know I wouldn’t take a call if it weren’t important.”

She blinked at him, smiling knowingly. “Of course.” She knew- she had heard the name _Will_ and was perhaps waiting for Hannibal to broach the subject first. It would be rude to admit she was eavesdropping, though he would forgive her for the slight.

“Everything okay?” she asked, a thinly-veiled manipulation.

Hannibal took a bite of his food- not quite cold, though nearing unpleasant. He took the opportunity to consider whether or not to divulge the information, to keep her dangling with her interpretations of what occurred and never satisfying them. In the end, his need to voice his triumph was too great, the power of his illusion too spectacular to deprive of an audience.

_He made Will Graham reappear_.

And he wanted the applause.

“That was your former and my current patient, Will,” he began, dabbing at his mouth to wipe away the excess oil. “It wasn’t an emergency, just calling with some concerns.”

She shifted in her chair, an indiscernible expression on her face. “He...called you?”

Hannibal took another bite, swallowing his overt delight at her response. She seemed jealous of the trust he managed to cultivate in the teenager; trust that she could never quite manage on her own. He nodded. “Yes, we worked through the issue as best as we could, but I suspect Thursday we’ll examine it more thoroughly.”

She turned her face to her near-empty plate, nodding her head. After a moment, she smiled, her jealousy forgotten. Good. It was an ugly color for her. “I’m glad he’s comfortable talking to you. He really needs someone he can trust.”

Hannibal raised his glass in silent cheers, nodding his head with the motion. Will did trust him, it seemed. And the knowledge sat warm in his belly, even if his dinner was cold.

~x~

It wasn’t until well into the evening- hours after Alana left- that he realized, as he sat in his home office with the sketchbook stretched out before him, their conversation never returned to the topic of the Minnesota Shrike and the mystery of the returned girl. How ironic- he finally succeeded in getting her to share the work from her other profession only to turn away from it. All because of Will’s phone call.

He smiled at the memory, returning to his drawing. It was almost done, though the details were too muted for his liking, his recollection not as sharp thanks to the darkness of night.

It was Will, sitting atop the boy whose neck was being crushed beneath his hands.

A beautiful design.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Will has a session with his school psychiatrist, that does not go very well for him. It does, however, go very well for Hannibal.


	9. Pressure Cooked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your dad’s not answering- is he out of town?”
> 
> “Will, if you don’t respond I’m going to have to call an ambulance.”
> 
> He couldn’t do it again. The gray walls and gray floors and gray trays of soft food. The tongue of his sneakers loose from where his shoelace was pulled and the pants cinched at his waist with a twist tie because he wasn’t allowed a belt or anything that could strangle, cut, kill. The doctors-
> 
> His eyes prickled at the memory, too much like a warning.

**Chapter Eight: Pressure Cooked**

Thursday. Seven in the evening.

Will sat in the same chair, dragged over to Hannibal’s desk so he would be opposite the doctor, eyebrow raised at the dish set before him.

“I won’t be offended if you don’t try it, it’s only an appetizer so you won’t go hungry,” Hannibal said, catching the uncertain look in Will’s eyes. Steak tartare sat on the center of the plate, atop a single leaf of Boston lettuce. Leaves of parsley were bright against the red grounds of meat, fried wonton wrappers nestled around the dish- a delightful texture beneath the yielding protein.

“Isn’t it...raw? Is it safe to eat?” Will asked, dubiously picking at it with his spoon.

“So long as one is mindful with food safety and cleanliness, it is perfectly safe,” he answered, once more reminding Will he didn’t have to eat it. He had known even as he made the dish that it was a risky thing to offer him, but the temptation to see him eating raw meat had been too great to ignore. To watch as the ground _beef_ was settled on his tongue, torn into by his teeth- meat, the way teeth had been designed to eat it. Torn straight from the muscle and bone of a prey. A pig. Canines to tear, molars to chew.

To his utter delight, Will shrugged, holding a fried crisp of wonton and slowly setting some meat onto the flaky chip. He brought it to his mouth, hesitating only a moment before biting into it, mouth closing around the red meat and chewing with an indiscernible expression. He swallowed, licked his teeth so that his lips bulged with the motion. “Weird texture, but not as gross as I thought it would be,” he said with a shrug, popping the other half in his mouth and chewing in a faster, less reserved manner.

“Excellent,” Hannibal said, eyes sparkling as he tucked into his own serving. “Did you call your doctor about your medicine?”

Will’s mood visibly soured, eyes diverting to glance at the bookshelves lining the walls. “Yeah. I had to make an appointment. But I can cancel it,” he said, sounding hopeful as he took another bite. “I made a list of all the medications I’ve taken and which ones worked so if you want to look it over, maybe you can figure it out and change the prescription?”

Hannibal frowned, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Will, but I-”

Will let out a blustery sound, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I’m sorry. Worth a shot.” He said nothing else as he ate, white teeth turned red- raw flesh nestled in the crowns of his teeth.

~x~

Chilton seemed surprised when he opened the door to his office, Will standing before him. He tilted his chin and slanted his eyes before looking at his watch. “As I live and breathe- Will Graham not just on time, but even a few minutes early for a scheduled counseling session,” he taunted, condescension lacing his voice as he stepped aside, allowing Will to enter the room. A security guard sat outside the office, a looming reminder of the unspoken threat Will posed to those around him.

“I’m full of surprises,” Will said in a pained grin, assuming his seat opposite Chilton as the doctor sat at his desk. There were two seats on Will’s side of the desk, but Chilton never sat in the other one. Less like a psychiatrist and more like a principal, a warden. Though he hadn’t been a very good warden either- the other kids in the program taking great delight in the gossip of Chilton’s decline. It was old news by now, seven years since a prisoner sliced the man down the middle and performed a crude half-surgery.

Will often wondered about the scar Chilton would have even as he tried desperately to push it from his mind. _Cut along the dotted line._

“Perhaps Doctor Lecter is rubbing off on you. You could stand to learn some of his etiquettes,” Chilton mumbled, settling his cane out before him and resting a hand on it.

“You know Doctor Lecter?” Will asked, only to regret it the moment the words left his mouth. Chilton snatched the question between his teeth, smirking unattractively.

“We’ve crossed paths a few times, our circles tend to mingle.” He had a flouncy way of talking, drawing out his words as though he wished to savor them even though they were always mediocre at best. Indulgent, more than anything. If words could have a taste, his would be like fast food. Something that seemed satisfying despite lacking any real value. Satisfying until they turned, twisted and soured in your stomach. “I wasn’t surprised when I heard Doctor Bloom had referred you to him. Though I wonder how long he’ll last. You know how to make your way through the psychiatry section of the yellow pages, don’t you?”

Will frowned. “Not my fault the first ones were such duds.”

Chilton’s lips twitched at the remark. “A psychiatrist is only as good as his patient. If my advice was listened to, you would be having this conversation in a padded room behind a locked door after that whole incident with Doctor Wilcox. You certainly took a bite out of that session, didn’t you?”

Will stilled, arms folding over his chest as he averted his gaze from Chilton’s ears to the bookshelf in the corner. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he muttered, a fevered flush creeping from his collar.

“You don’t want to talk about anything. You never have.” Then, after a moment of quiet, Chilton added, “You are immune to therapy.”

The comment dug into him, a splinter slipping in the layers of his skin. “I liked Doctor Bloom.”

“And we see how that worked out,” Chilton said, voice soft. Though not soft in a kind way- a comforting way. It was a perversion of something that would be too nourishing for Will. Something neither of them thought Will deserved.

It hollowed him out, the mention of Doctor Bloom sitting like a spur in his throat- strangling with each breath and stabbing with each swallow.

“I like Doctor Lecter,” he said, less because it was true and more because he thought it would irritate Chilton. He clearly didn’t like the man, despite wanting to be him. To command the room, to have elegance and power evoked with each movement. He wanted the quiet intelligence that did not need to assert itself to be known, wound within the charming words that were always _just right._ He wondered if he even spoke in that pulling accent in an attempt to echo the man. Had he met Doctor Lecter one day and, deciding the man was what he wanted to be, let the accent slip into his words? Twist them in a mirroring of the man who garnered so much respect while Chilton himself struggled to retrain the spotlight on him, often dragging Will with him?

Like a child dressing in their father’s suits.

Chilton frowned at the admission. Lecter was the original to his photocopy, and, resisting the grin that threatened to tip on his mouth, Will added, “I feel comfortable talking to him. Even more than with Doctor Bloom.”

It wasn’t a lie. Even if there was something _off_ about the man, something he couldn’t put his finger on but sat just to the left of _normal_ \- he was easy to talk to. It was hard to share with Doctor Bloom- wanting her to like him because she was the only therapist that was nice to him, that didn’t treat him like the monster beneath the bed. He didn’t want to scare her off, reveal to her how _bent_ and _contorted_ his thoughts were.

She even had the good grace to not seem so obvious about her interest in his empathy disorder.

Lecter was the only one who didn’t have an overt interest in it- though that was more a testament to his ability to hide his intrigue than anything else. But he was easy to talk to- maybe because his _slightly to the left of normal-ness_ made Will feel less self-conscious of his own abnormality. He had a way of knowing what Will wanted- _needed_ \- to say and forming the words for him. Not in a presumptuous way- the way so many other doctors thought they knew what Will had to say, filling his head and mouth with all the wrong words. But in a way that was sympathetic, understanding Will and giving him a voice.

“And what have you talked about with Doctor Lecter that you couldn’t talk about with anyone else, Will?” Chilton said, accent slipping and waning in his annoyance with the teenager, leaning on the edge of his chair with his cane for balance. It made Will want to kick the cane out from under him, making the man tumble to the floor.

He imagined him shattering when he fell, the seam of his scar splitting open, spilling blood and organs across the linoleum. Sometimes it was hard to focus when he knew that someone had dug his hands into Chilton’s torso- the flaps between his skin. That all his organs had been pulled from him and then shoved back. Did they feel right? Did Chilton still feel the hollowness that once nearly killed him? Did he feel the impression of Gideon’s fingers, the indent, or a bruise of his touch that never healed?

Did it feel like his organs were in the wrong spot, shifted and moved around? Toyed with?

What did it feel like for _Gideon?_ To slowly pull the man apart, bit by bloody bit? Did it satisfy the anger he felt at Chilton fumbling around in his head? Did it feel righteous, undoing him the way Chilton undid him?

“ _Will?”_

He startled at the sound of his name, blinking rapidly as though chasing away the fantasy from his vision, willing reality to replace it. His jaw was clenched, crowns of his teeth grinding together, and his breath was shallow. The air was too thin, too unsatisfying for his hungry lungs.

He turned his gaze back to Chilton, hands settling on the arms of the chair as though readying to stand.

Chilton _flinched_.

In a different context, it might have felt powerful. A sinful sort of pleasure derived from making the man before him watch him like a gazelle watched a lion, preparing to flee. But in this context- the one that needed to matter because he needed to be _normal_ \- it was hurtful.

He didn’t like Chilton. But he liked Chilton’s prognosis of him even less. That he was a danger to himself and others and would always be such. Treating him like a convict he had yet to become.

No one liked feeling as though their lives were predetermined for them, hanging from the threads of fate like a marionette. Like they were _hopeless._

Chilton made him feel hopeless.

“You were thinking of one just now, weren’t you?”

There was another striking difference between Chilton and Lecter, he thought as Chilton stood from the chair with sharp, ungraceful movements, waving to the security guard to come inside. When Will fantasized about killing Chilton and was caught, the man responded with panic. Fear that the thoughts would turn into actions.

When Lecter caught him doing the same, eyes catching the tightening of Will’s grasp on the knife as they ate dinner, he seemed almost playful. A delight in Will’s wickedness as though he had gotten the captured beast to move from his cage and was waiting to see what he would do with his freedom. Whether he would flee or attack with fangs and talons glinting in the light or thank the good doctor for loosening his shackles. He didn’t need a security guard to feel safe, protected from Will and his impulses.

Perhaps he trusted Will to not follow through.

Perhaps it was something else.

_That something to the left of normal-ness._

Will gritted against the palms that patted him down, checking for a weapon he would not have because he was made to walk through a metal detector every day and because he knew better than to give himself something too close to temptation. It was indignant, cheeks flaming red at the touches that took too long to end. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, until his mouth was more full of it than saliva.

He wanted to go home and crawl beneath his blanket, where it was dark and heavy and quiet. Not in his head, but at least elsewhere.

Chilton asked questions that went ignored, leaning against his desk. His cane was held out between both hands as a makeshift baton in case Will decided to act on his fantasies. Uselessly. Will would never do such a crude, lunging attack. It would be over too quickly, and he enjoyed the idea of flesh writhing beneath him in pain as much as he did the idea of it stilling in death.

For some reason, he didn’t think that would make Chilton feel safer.

The hands finally- _mercifully_ \- pulled away, though the ghost of their grazing touch lingered like a blister; a fevered rash. He was instructed to sit down, and when he did it was to curl up, folding his knees to his chest and resting his forehead in the space between them. Making himself small, hoping to collapse on himself as though he were a dying star.

“I’m calling your dad,” Chilton said when Will sat in his silence, trying to steady the breaths that fanned over his legs and warmed his jeans. The words sounded distant, muffled through a veil he preferred to keep pinched in place. Blood seeped between his teeth from where he chewed his mouth, and the pain was a pleasant distraction. It kept him tethered, kept his mind from sinking into all the things he did not like to think about.

Blood and sinew, ripped veins and organs which pulsed and twitched. Hands and hospitals and lifting his tongue and locked doors that beeped and opened for everyone _but him_.

He was slipping. Slipping from his tenuous grasp on his reality. He didn’t want to go _back_. It felt too much like prison, too much like damnation. Too much like the doors would close on him and never open back up.

Like he was _stuck_. Trapped for an eternity.

He was, dimly, aware that he couldn’t breathe. That his face was turning red and his head swooning as he kept his nose pressed to his knees. His lungs tried to expand, but they faltered and wavered. He was choking on nothing but his panic and fear and he could die right there and Chilton wouldn’t care because at least he wasn’t a danger to others anymore.

Words were said around him.

“ _Your dad’s not answering- is he out of town?”_

“ _Will, if you don’t respond I’m going to have to call an ambulance.”_

He couldn’t do it again. The gray walls and gray floors and gray trays of soft food. The tongue of his sneakers loose from where his shoelace was pulled and the pants cinched at his waist with a twist tie because he wasn’t allowed a belt or anything that could _strangle, cut, kill._ The doctors-

His eyes prickled at the memory, too much like a warning.

“ _Will?”_

It wasn’t Chilton’s voice.

It was Doctor Lecter.

The voice startled him, the cadence like a hand reaching out to his own as he was shoved and pushed and dragged underwater. His instinct was to shirk away from it-

_Bite it._

“ _Will.”_

Something touched his knee, a cautious hand and he felt tightly-coiled, spring-loaded. He reached out, fingers curling and crushing-

“ _Will, let go of my hand please.”_

Reality came to him slowly, but fiercely. Like a storm, the approach of it dragging forward until suddenly the sky was opening and pouring rain- lightning illuminating the earth and thunder crashing. Just as suddenly as he was sinking, he was back in the chair, heart thrumming in his pulsing veins and fingers crushing Lecter’s hand in a bruising grip, three fingers turning purple in his hold.

He swallowed, a thought flashing through his mind faster than he could stop it. How easily he could break those fingers, snapping them like a baby bird.

“Please let go, I’m starting to lose feeling,” he said, his voice still measured and controlled despite Will’s vice-like grip on his hand.

He licked his lips- tasting of blood. He released his hold, watching as the violet-colored fingers flexed loosely.

His voice was strained, reedy when he spoke, as though his throat had clenched so tightly it shrunk in size. “Please don’t make me go back to the hospital.”

~x~

Friday was a slow day for Hannibal. Not many patients were keen to begin their weekend in therapy, picking apart and confronting their most flawed selves. It was the sort of task best kept to the drudgery of the workweek, when personal lives were set on hold and the brief reprieve from life sat several business days away on the calendar. To others, it might have been relaxing. A pleasant start to his own solace.

He found it boring.

He had the comforts he enjoyed, of course. Events to attend and dinner parties to host. And the weekend was the most ideal time for his hunts- several days to arrange his sleeping to ensure he was well-rested enough. Fine-tune the details without cumbersome appointments and business calls. Sundays were spent sleeping in with all the warm decadence of a cat fat on mice and milk, and when he rose it was to prep his meals for the week. Sausage to be ground, rich belly fat to be cured. It was methodical work. Grounding work.

A resetting of his endorphins, shifting from his pleasure setting to business.

It was the thing he enjoyed most in his week.

Yet, it was still routine.

And routines were prone to boredom. Dullness. A certain settling into the foundation. Laziness.

He detested the dull.

Which was why he felt a flicker of intrigue when his phone rang, screen lighting with a contact he had not spoken with in some time but was just considering reconnecting with over the last few weeks. Frederick Chilton.

How fortuitous.

He answered after the third ring, pointedly staring at the ringing phone for what he felt was an appropriate amount of time. “Doctor Lecter.”

“Hello, Hannibal. It’s Doctor Chilton. Long time no see,” the man mused, and Lecter smiled, thinking of him twitching as shocks of electricity circuited through him; veins and capillaries turned to wires which sparked and smoked with the pungent smell of burning plastic and charred flesh. Drool slicking his lips and chin.

“Yes, too long. My apologies, life seems to have slipped away from me as of late. To what do I owe the pleasure of this reunion?” he asked, pulling his sketchbook before him and flipping to a blank page, hands smoothing down the spine so it laid flat. It had been some time since he last saw Chilton, but his memory was a force in and of itself, tracing his face with ease in a soft graphite pencil, size 4b. Smooth enough that it glided in delicate shadows, would easily blend into the page when traces became sure lines. When nothingness became intricate details.

“Not what, but who. Will Graham,” he answered, his accent drawling in his ear as he said the name with distaste. All wrong. Long and sloping with too much stretching between the vowels. Not soft and sharp.

“Ah,” he said, warmth pooling in his stomach. _How fortuitous_ , he thought once more. Fate was aligning favorably for him today.

He said nothing else, enjoying the small amount of pleasure he derived from knowing Chilton was waiting for his prompting questions. Waiting for Hannibal to submit to him for the information dangled so thoughtlessly before him.

He finished drawing the approximate shape of the head in silence, the round center cut away to reveal his brain beneath.

Finally, Chilton relented on an exhale. “His dad isn’t answering, and I would really like to not have to deal with the paperwork of calling an ambulance.”

His hand paused, stilling over the beginning of what would be Will standing over Chilton, as though ready to perform a surgery he was preparing for his whole life. He blinked. “If an ambulance is necessary than I urge you to call one regardless of the paperwork.”

It was purposeful, not asking after Will. Even through the phone, he could hear the click of the doctor’s muscles, the desire to _talk_ about Will, and hand over his information like a tick he could not control. He didn’t enjoy the fumbling attempt at manipulation. The man always lacked subtlety, preferring outlandish theatrics instead.

“It isn’t necessary. He’s just faking it. Aren’t you curious what he’s faking?”

Hannibal hummed noncommittally. “Of course. But I’m more curious as to what you believe I can do about it. What is the purpose of this phone call, Frederick?”

There was a pause. “You’re his psychiatrist now. I tried working with Doctor Bloom but she’s always had a more idealistic version of people and we never quite meshed as a team for Will. I was hoping you would be more open to my professional opinion.”

“I am always open to hearing the thoughts of my colleagues,” he said. He drew Will wrong, the sharpness and softness not blending well enough to his liking. He placed the 4b back with the others, grabbing a 6h after some consideration. Tighter detailing. More control.

“He needs to be committed. Perhaps a revision of his medication- I can offer my referral to some reputable centers for rehabilitation if you’d like-”

Hannibal frowned. “That seems unnecessary. Perhaps I can increase his care. I have some time available on Monday for a second block-”

“He’s not even _lucid_ anymore. His eyes glazed over in the middle of my session and I _knew_ he was off in that little mind of his. How can I or any of my other patients feel safe when he disassociates in the middle of conversations? He needs to be removed from the public,” Chilton said, tongue sharp with the scathing words, pinched in something Hannibal recognized as fear.

“I’m sure your _students_ feel perfectly safe,” he said, pausing minutely to let the words sit between. So good with words- pointed, wrapped in such lovely paper. _You’re a glorified teacher. You’re the only one who should feel unsafe._ “I can cancel the rest of my appointments for today and take him into emergency care if you wish. As for anything beyond that, I don’t feel comfortable discussing the matter without speaking to him myself.”

A wry chuckle followed the words. “I can lead a horse to water but I can’t make it drink, I suppose. I’ll try calling his dad again to let him know you’ll be picking him up. And, do hurry.” The phone clicked before Hannibal could respond, and he glanced at it with a frown before carefully settling the sketchbook in a drawer which he locked before rising for his coat.

He made the calls as he strode to his car- Friday was a slow day, and he only had to reschedule with three clients.

The drive was spent listening to Chopin _Nocturnes- Op. 9 No. 3 in B major, Allegretto_ being given special attention _-_ head swaying minutely in time to the haunting melody. It made him think of Will, the sharp and climbing keys of the piano, notes overlaying and staying just shy of discordant. Just shy of chaotic. A lullaby that inspired nightmares, beckoned shadows to consume the world.

A fragile melody played with practiced hands, straddling the balance. Soft and sharp.

What a stroke of luck it was, seeing Will _twice_ in one week.

Twice in twenty-four hours.

His third time speaking with the teenager, including his impromptu phone call during his Saturday dinner with Alana.

It was as though _he_ were the one with the empathy disorder, he thought with a bemused expression. His own mind carving itself out, hollowing itself out to make room for the boy. Will consuming him in a way that he consumed others. It was…

Invigorating.

Refreshing.

There was no one he’d rather have feast on him, he thought.

Will's mind was beautiful even as he felt betrayed by it, and the thoughts and fantasies that nestled between his neurons and synapses were like the first uncertain strokes of a paintbrush. A masterpiece waiting to be set free, an artist yearning to _create_.

What thought filled his head during Chilton’s session? What fantasy unfurled in his mind’s eyes like a blossoming rose?

How many fantasies did he have, rotating between them like a favorite show that eased the silence and loneliness of an empty home?

He did hurry to the school, though it was strictly because the traffic flowed in his favor and his car had recently been tuned and _not_ because Chilton demanded it. The program consisted of one classroom towards the front office, close to the doors and the metal detectors. The students- ten in total, spaced out far enough from the other that they weren’t an immediate _danger to others_ \- glanced at him with thinly veiled interest as they turned from their conversations and abandoned school work at his entrance. An aid glanced at him briefly before returning to his book.

One boy- a wiry boy who thumped his foot against the leg of his desk noisily- stuck his tongue out at him, beady eyes sparkling. He knew the face well, had committed it to the pages of his sketchbook, frozen in that moment between life and death that Will held him in.

He smiled in return, disappearing into Chilton’s office.

“Ah, thank you for joining us,” Chilton said as the door clicked close, leaning against his desk with his cane held out before him. A cane that was entirely accessory now, perhaps kept handy as a potential weapon of self-defense.

He wouldn’t need it. Will’s fantasies for him weren’t so impulsive.

“Thank you for calling me,” he answered, turning his gaze to where Will sat, curled up on the chair. His dirty shoes were braced on the edge of the seat, dried mud smeared over the fake leather. His arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, face buried in his knees and his breath was labored, audible pants muffled from his tightly pressed posture.

He furrowed his brow. “How long has he been having an anxiety attack?”

Chilton gave him a wistful look, lips twisting crookedly. “He’s faking, I’m sure. The only anxiety he’s feeling is at having been caught red-handed,” he answered.

Hannibal spared him a final glance before rounding on Will, crouching down until he was eye level with the teenager, even if his eyes were screwed shut and pressed against his legs. “Will?” he called, watching as he shuddered at the familiar timbre.

“Will,” he said again, thinking back to the file he read, scotch warm in his stomach and fire warm on his face. The first time Will gave in to his impulses, letting his desire act faster than his restraint. Jaw clenching around a finger, a situation so similar to this it felt superimposed from Hannibal’s reading. Will receding into his thoughts, sinking and falling, only to attack when someone tried to draw him out.

Curiosity prickled at him, and he settled a light hand to Will’s knee.

He wanted to see what he would do.

He unwound, a rubber band pulled to its limit, and Hannibal found himself settling firmly on his heels, Will’s slender hand squeezing down on three fingers.

“Will, let go of my hand please,” he said.

Recognition flickered in Will’s gaze- eyes green now, muted like a forest in the late hours of dusk. He maintained eye contact, Hannibal unblinking for fear that the action would disrupt the moment and Will would avert his gaze. He didn’t though, and Hannibal was gifted with the opportunity of watching reality shift back in place, pupils shrinking back in size as he exhaled a shaky breath.

Then they moved, shifted to look at his own fingers wrapped around Hannibal’s- white-knuckle grasp wound around violet. He made no move to slacken his hold, perhaps thinking of how similar it was to bearing down on a throat.

Or considering how much more pressure until the bones snapped.

As tempting as it was to see which one Will would give in to, he was still aware of Chilton’s presence and the security guard standing to the right of Will. “Please let go, I’m starting to lose feeling.”

Will released his grip, hand hanging in the air. His voice was small when he spoke, low enough that only Hannibal could hear. “Please don’t make me go back to the hospital.”

Hannibal inhaled a breath. “I won’t, I promise,” he said simply, warmly. “And I always keep my promises.”

Will gave him a not-right smile that crumbled into a sob. _Painful_.

_How fortuitous,_ he thought as he gathered Will’s things for him, extending a hand out to help the boy rise from his chair. He considered the palm apprehensively for a moment before taking it, letting himself be pulled to a stand. He flinched when Hannibal settled a hand to his shoulder but did not shirk away from it, letting the older man guide him through the school and towards his car.

He ignored Chilton’s parting words, something about reconsidering and emailing him the _stuff we talked about_. Fate was aligning for him, so perfectly he thought it might have been a dream. Will, pliant beneath his palm, withered and desperate for comfort after having an _hour-long panic attack_.

Chilton’s incompetence had its uses.

Will slid into the passenger seat of his car, inhaling a breath and leaning back when Hannibal took the liberty of clipping his seat belt in- more to see if he could get away with it than anything else. A gauge of Will’s vulnerability.

Will said nothing for the first ten minutes of the drive, an exhale dropping so harshly from his lungs it rattled in the space between them when they passed the exit for the hospital. He made it a point to change to the far left lane, as far removed from the ramp as possible.

“Why not?” was all he asked, voice strained and exhausted.

“I don’t believe in hospitalizing someone for the smallest slip. You didn’t act on it, and that’s all that matters,” Hannibal explained.

“Where are we going? My dad’s not home, he-”

“If you’re alright with it, I was going to bring you to my house,” he said, knowing that Will would be alright with it. Soft and malleable for a rare moment, weakened.

He huffed out a laugh, his breath fanning and fogging the window he leaned his head against. “What’s _wrong_ with you?” he muttered, the words loud enough for Hannibal to hear. Vulnerability made his filter drop, his suspicions voiced instead of sitting like a disease in his marrow.

Hannibal smiled, glancing at the clock on the dashboard between them. Twelve seventeen. Time for Lunch.

“I’d like to teach you how to cook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been crazy at work, super short-staffed, and all that. So I'm afraid I've fallen a little behind in writing, and am uncertain if I can get back over the weekend. Unfortunately, that means there's a good chance this will be the last update for the weekend. Possibly until Tuesday, unless I can scramble ahead.
> 
> But, when the next chapter is up~~
> 
> Cooking lessons with your friendly neighborhood cannibal; Will can't decide if there's something seriously wrong with his therapist, or if he's just paranoid. Matthew has an idea to figure it out.
> 
> It is not a good idea though.


	10. Chiffonade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They continued cooking, passing the knife between them when Lecter showed Will a new technique- instructing him on the difference between the cuts. Chiffonade, julienne, diced, brunoise…
> 
> So many words filling his head, and Will tried to remember them all, surprised by all the different words there were for cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This chapter contains explicit consensual sexual content.

**Chapter Nine: Chiffonade**

“There’s something wrong with you,” Will said, sitting on the barstool opposite Lecter, the man cleaning and arranging the prep space in a manner that was _just so_. He felt steady despite his exhaustion- tired from the slackening of his muscles, from the wane of adrenaline. Grounded in the certainty that something was wrong with Doctor Lecter. Too tired to care about not voicing it.

As though trying his best to prove the point, Lecter _smirked._ “What makes you say that?”

Will grimaced. “An hour ago I was convinced I was about to be loaded in an ambulance because I was so distracted wondering what it must have felt like to _pull my teacher's organs out_ that my teacher noticed.” His voice trembled from the strain of his words, pinched and measured, jaw clenched. Lecter stilled, palms flattening against the counter. “And instead of doing the sensible thing, you invited me to your home. To teach me how to cook?”

Lecter pulled his hands away, smoothed his fingers over his palms. “Your fantasies are tactile. They use your hands. So does cooking,” he explained, intentionally stepping over the more obvious point Will was trying to make. “We’ll redirect your energy into something more socially acceptable and productive.”

He was going to make Will say it, he realized.

“I could kill you,” Will said, letting the words slip between them, like a knife through ribs. “Aren’t you the least bit afraid? It’s not very smart inviting someone to your house, _alone_ , when they spend their days thinking about murder.”

“You’re not going to kill me, Will,” he said with such certainty it made Will want to prove him wrong. Grab a knife from the block sitting between them and plunge it into his jugular. Blood spurting outward, thick crimson rivulets staining the clean and _just so_ arranged counter.

Will tilted his head, voice a low whisper- a threat. “How can you be so sure?”

Lecter considered him for a moment, eyes the color of bourbon, light illuminating amber. He never looked long enough to see it, always avoiding eye contact because it was distracting.

Lecter’s eyes weren’t distracting, though.

They were too absent.

“For five years, Will, you have wanted someone to see you,” he began, grabbing a folded apron from a drawer and smoothing the thick fabric. “Well, I see you. Killing me would be killing a part of yourself, an extension of yourself. And as much as you think you know something’s wrong with me, you aren’t sure. Thinking something’s wrong with me isn’t nearly as satisfying as knowing _what’s_ wrong with me, isn’t it? I think you’re curious.”

He held the apron out over the counter, looking at Will expectantly. A moment passed before Will stood from the chair, grabbing hold of it. “Are you admitting there’s something wrong with you, then?” he asked, not taking his eyes away as he wound the ties around his waist.

Still too absent to be distracting.

“Of course there is,” he answered. “Nobody escapes this world unscathed by abnormality. How familiar are you with the different knives a chef uses?”

His face twitched, feeling like the question was a trap. “Like...a steak or butter knife?”

Lecter pulled the knife block to him as Will moved around the island, slow and purposeful, one hand sliding over the countertop as though otherwise he would flutter away.

“This is a Chef’s knife-” Lecter said, pulling a blade from the block in a swift and fluid motion, holding it up and outward so the blade glinted in the light. A threat, or perhaps a promise.

‘ _I always keep my promises.’_

“This is the most versatile knife in your set. Suitable for mincing, chopping, dicing. Fruit, vegetables, root produce- even meat. Multi-purpose. To use-” he paused, grabbing a bulb of fennel and setting it on the cutting board. Using his left hand to pinch the end with the bright green fronds and hold it still, his right lowered the knife- a wide tapered blade with a smooth mouth. “Anchor the tip in place, moving the food with each swing. It’s important to keep your cuts uniform so each piece cooks exactly the same.”

He demonstrated, sliding the sharp scented vegetable slowly forward as the knife remained in its fixed position, swinging down in a menacing arch. Practiced, confident. Satisfied, he used the side of his knife to scrape the long strips into his open palm, placing them in a glass bowl. “ _Mise en place_. Everything in its place. It means you prep all of your ingredients and have them measured and ready to go before you begin cooking. Every successful chef knows the importance of preparing your station. This is what we’re doing. Preparing.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “For what?” he asked, knowing his delusion made him paranoid by nature but unable to quell the feeling that Lecter was talking about something other than lunch.

He smiled. It was not an absent gesture.

His mouth- lips and teeth and tongue- spoke where his eyes were silent.

“Are you curious, Will?”

Before Will could think of a response, Lecter flipped the knife in his hand, pinching the blade and holding the handle out to Will. He glanced at it, uncertain. “Cut the fingerling potatoes, half an inch. Just as I showed you. Anchoring the tip and swinging it down.”

There were a thousand things he could do with the proffered knife. His earlier thought of ramming it through his throat was washed away in the deluge of fantasies. Driving it through his stomach and twisting, finding his closest approximation to where his heart might sit and try to pierce it through. Cutting him open and pulling his organs out one by one, as he imagined doing to Chilton.

But to what end?

Dragged to the hospital he had shed tears of relief at avoiding? Arms strapped in an _x_ across his torso, neck stiff from the injection of tranquilizers, keeping him drowsy and still until...what? His trial? His conviction? Until he finally faded away into nothing, crumpled in the corner of a padded cell as Chilton leered at him from behind the bars, tutting his tongue.

“ _I can lead a horse to water but I couldn’t make it drink.”_

And Doctor Bloom would _hate_ him.

He killed her colleague, her friend, her...whatever.

She would feel the guilt as though it were her own, a crime of her own hand. The same hand that wrote the referral would be the same hand that held the knife. She would blame herself because no one was here at this moment. No one could see the absent eyes and hear the weight in his words that made them feel monstrous and double-ended.

All they would see was Will, blood-stained, and shaking. _A danger to himself and others._

And Will _was_ paranoid. Would it feel so righteous to kill the man when all he did wrong was _not_ bring him to the hospital? _Not_ commit him against his will, under the guise of professional concern?

He swallowed the bile that soured his stomach, shot up his throat. He grabbed the knife and took the space behind the cutting board, pulling the potatoes towards him.

He hated to admit how right Lecter was. It was a satisfying way to channel the energy- the knife making a _clunk_ as it cut the raw potato, resisting briefly to the pressure before the blade slid through with ease. It was harder than it looked to slice the way the doctor had, fighting the natural pull to move the knife and he found himself starting and stopping multiple times, re-anchoring the tip.

“What are we making?” Will asked as Lecter moved around him. It was a concentrated effort to keep his gaze on the potatoes spread before him and not on the movements behind him. _Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid._

“Roasted fennel and potatoes, with garlic and Parmesan cheese, and seared steak,” he answered with a grin, coming to stand beside Will as he set a vacuum-sealed package of meat on the counter. “When cooking steak, you should always let it come to room temperature. Pat dry to make sure there is no moisture on the meat- otherwise, it will steam when you set it in the pan and prevent the meat from crisping.”

Will nodded along with the directions, the moment feeling surreal. Once more, suspended outside of the typical march of time and space. As though Lecter were a vacuum, a black hole that did not heed to the constraints of the normal world, pulling Will into his fierce gravitational pull. He swallowed, wondering if he would ever be able to pull himself out. Or if he would be stretched and contorted for an eternity, scrambling for purchase that would never be found.

They continued cooking, passing the knife between them when Lecter showed Will a new technique- instructing him on the difference between the cuts. _Chiffonade, julienne, diced, brunoise…_

So many words filling his head, and Will tried to remember them all, surprised by all the different words there were for _cut._

The vegetables were roasting by the time they moved on to the meat, using the knife to cut through the plastic seal and sliding the steak out onto a cutting board. It fell to the sealed surface of the bamboo slab, thick and slimy with the marinated juices and blood. Not blood, Lecter corrected. Myoglobin, an iron-rich protein that looked like blood.

_Not blood._

“We’ll use a carving knife for this,” Lecter advised, pulling the chef’s knife from Will’s hand and replacing it with a different one. It was similar in shape, though the blade was thinner and longer. “It will give you finer control.”

Will nodded. “Trim the fat?” he asked, a finger curling over the edge of fat on the meat, white and soft enough that it gave in with the pressure of his touch, embedding beneath his fingernails.

Lecter smiled. “Actually, I prefer to cook meat with the fat on and trim any excess after it’s been cooked. It’s more flavorful that way.”

“All the flavor, none of the guilt,” Will mused, turning his attention from the strip of fat and cutting the meat into two even portions- following the natural grain.

Lecter leaned in, hands braced on the counter as he watched Will work. “Personally, guilt is not something I associate with a good meal. Though I understand some of my guests may disagree,” he quipped.

“How considerate of you,” Will said, finding familiarity in his own tone. _Sincerely insincere._

“Massage the olive oil and seasoning into the meat,” Lecter said, watchful eyes following Will’s hands as he did just that, hands slippery and gritty as he rubbed the coarse seasoning into the delicate meat. Spongy and firm, fingers slick. “Don’t be shy with the salt. I’ve already told you I don’t make a habit of feeling guilty with food, I hope you don’t either.”

“I don’t,” Will answered, using the teaspoon measure to scoop up more salt from the dish beside the cutting board and sprinkle it on the meat. Satisfied, Hannibal lead him to the stove, where a cast-iron skillet was sat on a burner, a blue flame low beneath the iron teeth and preheating the pan. Pinching one end of a steak, he slowly laid it down- away from him, not towards him as Lecter reminded. _Safety, safety, safety._

The meat sizzled with the hot surface, oil bubbling and crackling. He laid the second one down, the thick side opposite the other cut, the meat sitting in the pan like a crude puzzle. Lecter stood beside him, eyes hooded as he glanced between Will and the searing meat in the pan. “Smells delicious,” he commented, lips tipping upward.

“It’s your recipe,” Will reminded. “I’m just doing what you say.”

“For now,” Lecter agreed, nodding indulgently. “I know the last time I proposed an unconventional therapy, you turned down my invite. But, if you find this beneficial, I would be open to extending it once more.”

Will glanced at him from beneath the curls that brushed over his brow, finding the barricade a comfort. “You’ve brought food anyway. I don’t see why you’d rather have me in your home.”

The _‘because I’m a danger to myself and others’_ went unspoken between them.

“Because this time I would extend the invite to the preparation and cooking as well,” he explained, glancing back at the meat. “It should be ready to flip now.”

Will did so, using the metal tongs to clamp down on the meat and turn them over. They were seared a deep brown, the color of molasses, crisp skin sealing the juices inside. His mouth watered, saliva pooling between teeth. It did smell _delicious._ The sharp tang of dried tarragon and parsley, cracked peppercorn, and freshly ground salt. “You want to teach me to cook for therapy?”

‘ _There’s something wrong with you’_ went unspoken as well.

“Tactile therapy. Finding enrichment in something that not only fulfills your basic needs, but can help abate your more carnal ones. Finding a controlled power in the feeling of a chef’s knife in your hand can help center you and provide an outlet for your fantasies,” he said, adding quickly, “If you’d like, of course, and if your father approves of it.”

Will didn’t answer for a long time, turning the question over in his mind. He was silent as they pulled the vegetables from the oven, scooping them from the aluminum foil that clung to the slightly charred produce, thick from the pork fat they used in place of olive oil. _‘A more decadent, robust taste,’_ Lecter had said.

He was silent as they pulled plates from the cupboard, setting them beside the stove. "Plating is very important to the experience. One eats with their eyes first, anticipation building for the flavors of the dish by the sight. It's important to bear in mind the representation of all elements of the meal, as well as colors and arrangement. The finer details matter as well, utilization of negative space, and how to carry and direct the eye." He paused, smiling softly. "The plate is your canvas, and you are putting yourself on a silver platter for your guests, offering them something of you that you can share. It's important that something be beautiful, as it is a gift."

Will offered him a sideways glance as he scooped the roasted fennel and potatoes- wet with melted fat and sprinkled with thin shreds of cheese- onto the center of the plate. He didn't like the idea of cooking for others- not nearly as much as Lecter did it seemed. Offering himself to others was something he did without want all the time. Too much of him, cut in pieces and handed off on serving trays. Perhaps Lecter had the opposite problem, closing himself in behind his mask and stitched facade. Perhaps he willingly cut himself up and handed the carvings out because he wanted others to see and examine the pieces spread before them, chew and gnash them between their teeth. He wanted to gift himself to people, but they were too distracted by the rich flavors to appreciate the ingredients and attention that went into the dish. Savoring the whole rather than the pieces.

The vegetables sat in a neat pile, the cut of steak artfully arranged so it was tilted over the bed. It seemed unnecessary to take such painstaking measures when it was just them- it would all taste the same. But it was undeniably beautiful and Will felt a stroke of pride at having created something so elegant, even if it was under careful instruction and supervision.

They were at the table by the time he answered, gazing not at Lecter but at the steak as he cut a portion from it, watching the juices squeeze from the meat at the pressure of his blade. It was pink in the center, medium-rare. “I think I’d like to learn to cook,” he said, telling himself it was because the food was _delicious_ and he’d like to create it on his own.

Ignoring the paranoid part of him that liked knowing when he met with Lecter, he would at least have a knife in his hands now.

_Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid._

~x~

Monday, four in the afternoon.

Will awoke suddenly- heart beating wildly against his chest as he hastily pulled himself up, glancing around his room for the sound that woke him. He found it, his phone ringing and vibrating along the wooden floor, the screen lit up. He groaned, licking his lips and finding his mouth uncomfortably dry as he leaned over, vision too blurry to see the name and photo illuminating his screen.

“Hullo?” he mumbled into the phone, words rough and sloping in sleep.

A laugh filled his ear. _Matthew._ “Did I wake you from the dead?”

“Something like that,” Will said, stretching as he sat up in his bed, sweat slicking his skin and making his curls cling to his forehead, his shirt to the contours of his chest. The sheets and blanket had been kicked away from their respective corners, wound and bundled at his feet. “I saw my doctor this morning and he gave me a script for some _Xanax_.”

Matthew whistled, the sound a sharp noise that brought with it a bluster of air crackling through the speaker. “If I had known threatening to kill Chilton would get me the good stuff, I would have done it long ago.”

Will scowled, reaching over to search for his glasses, palm fumbling over his nightstand. “I didn’t threaten him.”

“Your mistake,” Matthew teased, then added, “I’m here, by the way.”

“Why?” Will asked, tipping himself over the bed to search the floor. “My dad’s home- out in the garage, but still, he’s here. He doesn’t like you.”

“Chilton gave me your work for the week since you’re suspended.”

“I’m not suspended. It’s probation,” he amended, though the words mattered little. Euphemisms were all they were. Though suspended didn’t make him feel like a criminal.

His fingers curled over the frames of his glasses, and he plucked them up, shoving them on his face in an ungraceful gesture. The world was still blurry, as though it were a smeared painting, obscured by running acrylics that softened and hazed into each other. He frowned.

“Tomato, ta-mah-to,” Matthew mocked. “Are you going to come down?”

“I need to change, I’m still in my boxers-”

“ _Hawt,”_ Matthew interrupted, mispronouncing the word to make it softer, breathier. “Is the door unlocked? I can just come in.”

Will leaned back on his pillows, lips skewing in thought. The events of the last few days seemed to blur, indistinct and nebulous. It was as though he were sleeping, his dreams stretched and extended and bleeding into his reality. It was, he realized, like sleepwalking. Dreams ethereal and muddled yet grounded enough that he wasn’t entirely sure he might not be awake until he was startled by the pain of tripping over a tree root. Until he found himself suddenly on the ground of a forest.

Ever since his anxiety attack in Chilton’s office, reality contorted into something else. The strange cooking lesson with Doctor Lecter, the knife passed between them felt like something other than the exchange of a cooking tool. Like one of the metaphors the doctor was so fond of speaking in, one he wanted to tear apart and analyze but had no context for. He felt delirious, straddling the line between lucidity and stability. Paranoia had always been something he struggled with, a current running like electricity between his synapses and neurons that convinced him without due reason that others were never kind without a hidden motive. That kindness was a transaction, an exchange of courtesy for something Will had that they wanted.

Was there a reason to doubt Doctor Lecter, or was his diseased cortex simply waiting for the moment the other shoe would drop? The moment his proffered kindness would turn on Will?

It was too much, his head felt stuffed and weighted- the _Xanax_ no doubt making it all worse. He needed a break- from his thoughts and his paranoid; from himself.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes so his glasses were knocked askew. “Come on up, but be quiet so my dad doesn’t hear you.” He hung up the phone before he could hear Matthew’s response, resting his head against the wall behind him.

Too much. There was too much in his head and it was all getting tangled.

He thought of what Lecter had said when he had driven Will home. _‘_ _You admire his ability to live without constraints or uncertainty.’_ He supposed it was true- as cruel and awful as Matthew had the potential to be, at least he seemed _happy_.

Will certainly wasn’t happy, though his brain could forget that momentarily, mirrors reflecting back Matthew’s own manic delight. Borrowing his humor to replace Will’s own surliness.

The dogs barked, a cacophony of sound that rose from the downstairs and told Will that Matthew had come in through the front door. Making as much noise as possible.

‘ _Jerk,’_ Will thought, grinning despite himself.

Floorboards creaking preceded his bedroom door pushing open, Matthew stepping through with a wide and lopsided grin on his face. He held a manila envelope in his hands, raising it upwards and giving it a shake. “Hope you like chemistry- we have a test at the end of the week,” he said, flinging the envelope down to Will’s dresser as he closed the door behind him and entered the room. He plopped down on the bed, a gracelessness to his movements that made Will wince as the mattress shifted with his added weight. “We’ve all been wondering, Mister Graham; what did you think about doing to Chilton that your therapist had to escort you out and got you banned from class for a week?” he asked, holding his fist out to Will as though it were a microphone.

Will frowned, brushing the fist aside. “No comment.”

“Oh, I see. Playing hard to get,” Matthew said with a wink. “I brought some medicine with me if you want it.”

“Not today, I don’t think. Probably not a good idea with the _Xanax._ ” He paused a moment before adding, “and I’ve been paranoid enough.”

Matthew grabbed Will’s leg, resting his foot in his lap as a finger began tracing over the knob of his ankle; the tendons and bones that led to his toes. They flexed at the touch, but he made no move to pull his foot away. “Paranoid? Do you think someone’s out to get you? You spend your days in a classroom of psychopaths with a teacher that wants you committed. It’s not so much paranoid as it is common sense,” Matthew teased, making the threat feel like flirtation. “Speaking of a classroom of psychopaths, rumor has it Allison has a thing for you. Want me to ask her if she’d be down for a threesome?”

“If she has a thing for me, why would she want you there?” Will asked, cocking a brow. Though he already knew the answer- Matthew didn’t like to share him.

“Who wouldn’t?” was all Matthew said, cocky grin twisting his features. “What have you been paranoid about?” he asked, fingers trailing up Will’s legs, brushing over the crown of his knee before descending back down to his ankle. The touch was uncharacteristically delicate, as though he were committing the feel of him to memory.

Will finally pulled his leg back, sitting cross-legged on his pillows and steadfastly ignoring Matthew’s pout. “I just...I don’t know. There’s something...off with my therapist,” he confessed. It was strange, how people were categorized. How information that could be given to one couldn’t be handed to another. He cataloged people this way, by the things he felt he could share with them. Things he wouldn’t tell Matthew but would tell Doctor Lecter; things he wouldn’t tell Doctor Lecter but would tell Doctor Bloom.

Catering the words he shared to the people he shared them with, as though if he kept the pieces of himself separate when he handed them out, he would still be whole.

Matthew considered him for a moment, eyes narrowed in the shrewd way of his. More perceptive than most realized, his jubilant and impulsive nature concealing the careful calculations he hid from the world. Pieces of himself he kept out of sight, so he too could still be whole, Will mused. Finally, with an exhale, Matthew said, “He’s a hawk.”

Will furrowed his brow. “A hawk?”

Matthew nodded, shifting onto his hands and knees and crawling up the bed towards Will, eyes raised to meet his. It was easier to maintain eye contact with Matthew than with others; he hid nothing from him, no matter how heinous- there were no surprises. “He’s a hawk, like us. Smaller birds will gang up and mob the hawks on a wire. That’s why they have to stick together,” Matthew said before dipping his head down and kissing him, thin lips slotting easily against his own.

It was the second time Matthew kissed him while he was sober.

Though, he supposed, he wasn’t really sober. His head was still muffled and full from the medication he dry-swallowed after his appointment, his heart racing in his chest and the thrum of his pulse a sluggish, noticeable thing. A prescribed sort of high, the medically allowed hijacking of his senses.

Matthew grabbed his hips, pulling him forward and down along the bed, legs stretching out. He lowered himself until he was flat against Will, knees on either side of his thighs as he ground his hips against him, his erection hard and firm.

Matthew _enjoyed_ Will. Ever since his first day of Chilton’s program, returning to school and a life that felt foreign to the one he had prior to his second hospitalization, Matthew sought him out. Choosing the desk behind Will so he could toy with his curls during lessons, pulling the tendrils out taut and releasing them so they sprung back against his scalp. He clung to Will as a child might cling to a favorite toy, one they carried with them for comfort and treated with a kindness not spared to their other toys, sitting broken in their path.

He was never sure why- what about him inspired such admiration- but Matthew held Will in a place he did not hold others. Too perverse to be considered love, but a version of it. The crippled and mutated version Matthew was capable of, the sort of love a parasite would have for its host.

He enjoyed touching Will, innocently or otherwise. Enjoyed the taste of him- of his lips, the sweat that seemed a constant on his pale flesh. Even if Will rarely ever reciprocated, he never seemed to mind, a skewed give and take- though Will was never certain where he sat. If he was the giver or the taker.

Matthew was sliding down him, lips leaving wet and slopping kisses with entirely too much teeth in a trail to mark his descent; Will’s jaw, the columns of his throat. He rucked a hand up his shirt, bunching the fabric under his arms so he could touch him, clammy from sweat and deep sleep. Fingers brushed over the modest indents of his abdominal muscles, sighing in appreciation before dipping down further. Will canted his hips up as Matthew crooked his fingers under the waistband to his boxers, shimmying them down until they sat around his knees.

“I wonder which you like better,” Matthew mused, eyes sparkling as he wrapped a rough hand around Will’s shaft, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him, “choking me with your hands or your cock.”

Just as Will pulled himself up to his elbows, a sharp retort readied on his tongue, Matthew swallowed him. All thoughts were forgotten, aborted sharply and dissolving in the sensations that anchored him to the moment. The sensation of himself- nudging against the back of Matthew’s throat. Of the mouth, hot and wet, encompassing him, pulling filthy noises from his lips that he hastily covered with a hand between teeth.

He tolerated Matthew’s attention, if only because he enjoyed the things he could take from him. The absence of the thoughts that festered in his brain a welcome relief, chased away by the pleasure Matthew offered while expecting so little in return. It was perhaps a cruel thing to do to him, toying with his obvious affections in search of the solace that came with the indulgence of such pleasure- the quiet and numbing peace of limbs made heavy in the haze of an orgasm.

But Will was a psychopath, according to all his doctors. And wasn’t cruelty second nature to psychopaths?

He swallowed back a moan, muffled by the hand clamped between his jaw, and grasped the sheet with his free hand, fingers entwined in the cotton and pulling it sharply. He held to it as the muscles of his lower stomach tightened and flexed, holding tight to prevent himself from reaching out for the man currently undoing him with his tongue.

The sheet popped from the corner when he crested, tumbling over the precipice. He bucked, thrusting his hips upward to follow the sensation, eyes scrunched tight in the white-hot pleasure, almost painful as it struck through him. Stars burst in his vision, and he made a strangled sound that spilled between the knuckles that were aching with the sharp pressure of his teeth.

Matthew pulled off of him, Will’s cock limp and softening as he swallowed the evidence of his arousal, grinning widely and pupils blown wide with lust. He was courteous enough to pull the boxer shorts back up as he crawled upward, settling the waistband in place before seating himself on Will’s lap, hands fumbling with his belt.

Will let his eyes slide closed as Matthew worked himself above him, limbs heavy as molasses in post-coital bliss, sleep tugging on the corners of his brain and drowning his thoughts. But then Matthew spoke, words said between straining teeth and heavy arousal. _“That’s why we stick together, you know. We’re hawks.”_

Will opened his mouth, biting down on the reminder that they stuck together because they didn’t have much of his choice. But the words never made it past his tongue, his quieted thoughts crashing against him like a wave to a scraggly shoreline, raking him over jagged rocks. The memories of the last few days coming to him in vivid clarity, feeling like a bug that crawled beneath his scalp, itching at his brain. Tugging at all the wrong things. The memory of the knife being passed between him and Lecter, all the different words for cut sitting between the folds of his brain. _Chiffonade, dice, chop, julienne…_

The memory of the exit sign for the hospital any ordinary doctor would have taken. Because Will was a danger to himself and others, and the only people that ever felt safe around him were people who were _also_ a danger to themselves and others.

“He’s not a hawk,” Will said, unaware he said the words aloud until Matthew’s hips stuttered as he worked himself in his hands, a grunt leaving his lips. “He’s not a hawk,” he said again, louder, and Matthew chuckled, hand sliding over his cock again as he threw his head back.

“Weird time to think about your therapist,” he said, voice hoarse over his arousal. His moans became louder, strained and reedy, breaths turning into pants. Hips moved erratically, falling out of the steady rhythm he established and Will knew he was close, seconds away from spilling over his fist and onto the planes of Will’s stomach. The purple head of his cock, wet with precum, appeared and disappeared with the movements of his hand, and after a few more pumps he slumped over Will, forehead brushing against his crown of curls. A string of expletives fell from swollen, spit slicked lips as he came in hot spurts, marking Will’s stomach.

Matthew panted, holding himself above Will for several elongated seconds as he caught his breath. He raised his clean hand up, cupping the back of Will’s head and holding him in place as he kissed his forehead before pulling away, grabbing at the box of tissues on his bedside table. He dabbed at the mess on Will’s stomach, cleaning him off with a gentleness that belied his nature.

“We can follow him,” Matthew suggested, and Will blinked at the suggestion, his mind taking far too long to understand what he meant.

“You mean...stalk my therapist?”

Matthew grinned, glancing up at Will with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. “Yeah. I’m getting real good at it. He won’t even notice.”

Will grimaced at the admission, shuffling back up on his bed and tugging his shirt down. As if his sudden modesty would matter, shielding him away and making him invulnerable to the monster before him. “He will notice,” he said, shaking his head. And he would. He wasn’t sure of how or why he thought that but he was as certain as the sky was blue that Hannibal Lecter would absolutely notice if two teenagers were stalking him, no matter how good they were.

He remembered the night in the car, with the ghost of Matthew’s throat beneath his hands, and thinking for one wild moment that Lecter controlled the world and all its functions.

“Nah, he won’t,” Matthew said, undeserved confidence warming his words. “But if you don’t want to...” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders before shuffling up to Will, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed despite the stiffening of Will’s spine. Matthew also liked to cuddle, an act Will did not often indulge him in. He would give him it this time though. _Give and take._ “Guess we’ll never know if he’s a hawk or not.”

Will thought of hawks, the predator dominating the skies. Hawks was the wrong word for Lecter, he surmised. Hawks might have been the kings of the sky, but they were not the gods. They were a predator bird made prey by another. A bigger predator.

“He’s not a hawk,” he said again as Matthew leaned against him, head sliding to rest on his shoulder, breath tickling his neck. “He’s an eagle.”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are very sweet with your concern, but as hard as work was last week it earned me a lot of overtime and I applied for a promotion that I interview for soon so it's pretty convenient leverage for me so all in all, I don't mind it! I've been getting ahead with writing because now its getting to all the exciting bits and less set up and is a lot of fun to write (still some set up though. Fear not- we'll be at the summary scene all in due time)
> 
> Also! This was one of my favorite chapters so far. Maybe because the plot is starting to thicken- and that kitchen scenes are just a delight for me.
> 
> Next up, Hannibal and a different Graham share a meal, and he notices a familiar car following him around.


	11. Sous-Vide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello. We met before, though not formally. My apologies for the indiscretion. Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he greeted, extending a hand out that the teenager considered, lips twisting into a smirk. He gripped it, giving three aggressive pumps before dropping Hannibal’s palm.
> 
> “Hello, Mister Lecter. Matthew Brown,” he introduced, insincere formality dripping from his words like acid.

**Chapter Ten: Sous-Vide**

“Quite the place you have here, Doctor Lecter,” William Graham said as he entered the foyer to Lecter’s home, glancing around at the sitting room to his right- no doubt called something like a parlor or a drawing room or some other term that seemed foreign on his tongue. He felt distinctly out of place in the ornately decorated home, his ten-year-old jeans and worn cotton shirt making him feel under-dressed for an event that he was roped into.

He wondered how out of place his son felt in the home, the teenager’s sense of self even less stabilized than his own.

“Thank you, Mister Graham,” Lecter said with a polite smile, extending a hand out for his jacket that William shucked off with a surprised _oh._

“William is fine,” he said, watching as the man smoothed out the wrinkles in his coat- covered in dog hair, he realized with a half-embarrassed wince- before slipping it onto a coat rack.

“Than I insist you call me Hannibal,” Doctor- _Hannibal_ said, lowering his head in a kind nod before leading him through a hallway and into the kitchen, nearly three times the size of his own. Though, he supposed, that was the case for the whole house, making his humble farmhouse all the more humble. “Thank you for making time to meet with me for lunch. You are a difficult man to get alone, William.”

His grin was uneven as he came to a stop in front of the island, Hannibal rounding over to the other side where he was finishing up their meal. It didn’t look like anything he was familiar with, though it smelled delicious; earthy and heartwarming aromas thick in the air. “Thank you for...” he paused, closed his lips before parting them, only to snap them shut again. He didn’t quite know what to say to the man, the last few days having been a whirlwind of chaos. A separate one from the normal round of chaos- like the eruption of a volcano spurned by tremors of the earth. Or a tsunami crashing to the shore thousands of miles away from the same tremors and volcano. A chain reaction of unrelenting chaos.

“Thanks for everything. With Will and getting him from school the other day and for lunch. Just everything,” he said, blustering on his words that didn’t seem adequate enough. He sighed, rubbed the heel of his palm to his eyes. He had barely gotten any sleep since Chilton finally got a hold of him on Friday, his phone so active he considered tossing it over a bridge while he passed over it. An already full week of working and traveling- clients ready to sell their boats now that the season was coming to an end and deciding the cost of storing it wasn’t worth the repairs it needed- made even more cluttered by doctor appointments and school meetings all while trying to make sure his son wasn’t left unattended for too long.

He was fairly certain he hadn’t eaten anything other than some burnt coffee and breakfast sandwiches from McDonald’s.

It made the invitation of a home-cooked meal all the more appreciated.

Hannibal considered him for a moment. “It is my job as Will’s psychiatrist to be there for him when he feels his foundation crumbling. You do not need to thank me for doing my job,” he said, grabbing hold of the two plates and striding to the conjoined dining room.

William followed, eyes glancing around the room for only a moment before landing back on the man. “Yes, I do. I know Will can be...trying at times. I’m sure you have your work cut out for you,” he said, a wry grin twisting his face.

Hannibal glanced at him, an indiscernible expression on his face as he said, “as I’m sure you do as well.”

The comment caught William off guard, and Hannibal took the moment to pull a seat out for him, gesturing with a flourish for him to sit at the place setting. He did. “Butternut squash gnocchi with a brown sugar butter sauce, broccoli rabe and some slab bacon sprinkled with chopped walnuts, rosemary, and sage.”

He understood only half those words, but they all made his mouth water. “Sounds delicious,” he said, waiting for Hannibal to join him at the head of the table. When he did, he grabbed his fork, making certain to pinch a piece of everything on the tines before taking a bite. He stopped himself just short of making an audible sound of satisfaction. “Tastes delicious,” he amended when he finished chewing.

Hannibal smiled, taking a bite himself. “You mentioned over the phone that Will was going to his other doctors. How did that go?”

William shrugged sheepishly. “I uh...I rarely make it to the appointments myself.” He averted his gaze, turning to his dish as though he had renewed interest in it, guilt burning his cheeks. “Sometimes I’ll drop him off if there’s a client nearby, but he mostly takes care of it himself. His medication was changed though; we stopped at the pharmacy after I picked him up. They gave him a script for _Xanax_ which seemed a bit extreme to me, so I gave him one when we got home and kept the rest. He knows to ask if he thinks he needs one.”

Hannibal rose a brow. “ _Xanax_ does seem extreme. Does he have a history of anxiety attacks to warrant such a strong prescription?”

William hummed, eyes glancing at the corner of the dining room in thought. “I guess? He doesn’t talk much or mention it, but you can see him getting anxious. I guess he got upset during that visit when the topic of hospitalization came up again and Donald thought it would help.” He took a bite of the crispy pasta, chewing thoughtfully before saying, “That’s actually something I wanted to ask...Chilton seemed really ticked off you didn’t take to his idea of committing Will. I’m just confused about _why_ you didn’t.”

“Would you prefer if I had?” he asked, and William stumbled over his words in his attempt to answer.

“N-no. I mean..if he _needed_ it, shouldn’t you have? If he’s going to...if he’s thinking about hurting somebody...isn’t it better for _everyone?”_ he answered, hoping he didn’t sound as eager to the doctor as he did himself at the idea of locking his son up. He didn’t particularly like the idea of it- leaving his son behind in the intake room, the furthest point he was allowed before being turned away, Will’s eyes narrowed with betrayal and righteous anger. He didn’t like returning to an empty house, the too many dogs not a replacement for the boy. Nights of unnatural silence- he never realized how much noise Will made until he wasn't there to make it. Even the slam of a door when his temper got the better of him would have been preferable to such quiet. 

But he liked the idea of someone getting hurt even less- especially if Will would be punished for it. Misunderstood for it.

It was hard to voice all this though, so instead, he took another bite of food.

“Will had an extreme anxiety attack. The only one in danger was him- and Chilton’s medical license, if the school concerned themselves enough with it,” Hannibal said, his words light despite an inkling of disdain seeping into them at the mention of Will’s teacher. He wondered if they knew each other outside of their professional ties to his son. “I prefer considering other forms of therapy before leaping to the extreme. Though I will admit, they are unorthodox.”

William swallowed roughly, a brow raised. “Unorthodox?”

Hannibal nodded. “Well, first, I’d advise seeing Will twice a week. I have a few blocks available on Monday, and he is more than welcome to select the one most convenient to him. But I do believe he would benefit from additional therapy.”

William frowned but nodded in agreement with that. Will would hate the suggestion- he wanted _less_ doctors. Not more.

“I was also hoping to gain your permission to use our therapy time on Thursdays to teach Will to cook.”

“I...I’m sorry?” William asked, blinking owlishly. “You want to teach my son to cook? For therapy?”

It sounded absurd, like some sort of joke, but Hannibal was sincere as he lowered his cutlery and dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin. “Yes. Will is getting to an age where it would be beneficial to learn how to take care of himself. And cooking is a very tactile hobby. Allowing him a safe and constructive space to utilize his hands and thoughts to produce something he can proud of. Not unlike how you’ve taught him to fix boats and cars,” he explained, thin lips twisting into a smile as he nodded to William.

“Fixing boats don’t require a knife,” William said, bluntly.

“I’m not familiar with mechanics enough to know for certain,” Hannibal quipped, smirking at his own joke before adding, “Consider it like treating an eating disorder. It’s tricky, as it’s a neurosis based on something unavoidable- food. How do you facilitate an environment where someone learns to overcome their triggers while having to deal with them on a daily basis for their health?”

William furrowed his brow, dubious. “Will’s neurosis isn’t unavoidable though.”

“Isn’t it? Every day we’re exposed to violent images, from movies to sensationalized news stories to the books he reads. He encounters weapons every day, things he can utilize as weapons. We’ve become so desensitized to violence that you and I aren’t even aware of the violent messages assaulting us every day.” He paused, offering a wistful grin. “Even our language employs violence for dramatic purposes. Avoidance of these triggers is adequate for immediate relief, but long term it will set him up for failure. The world will not change to accommodate Will. He will never be able to see a movie, or watch the shows all his friends are watching, or see a knife and not think about hurting someone with it if he’s never forced to confront these triggers.”

William winced at the reminder of the sort of thoughts that coursed through his son’s head, soaked in blood and anguish. He never heard of the specifics himself, and he preferred to keep it that way. As though ignorance could preserve his image of Will just a little longer, petrify and suspend him in amber as though he were less a growing and developing person and more of a fossil. An unchanging thing- still the same child he raised. Precocious and more perceptive than he had any right being.

There was something _wrong_ about merging the two. Unwilling to taint his idea of Will with the reality of him. He told himself it was simply a phase- like when Will had a brief, fleeting interest in joining soccer only to later reveal he had a crush on a girl who played and wanted to impress her but he _hated_ soccer. He hoped that one morning Will would wake up and frown, confessing to hating the thoughts that sat like a tumor in his brain and that he would excise them. And then move on, abandoning them just as easily as he did the sport.

“Teaching him to cook is a controlled sort of violence. Using a knife to create instead of destroy. It will place the tools of his fantasies directly in his hands, giving him the power to make them powerless. A form of alchemy, if you will. A transition from one state into another,” Hannibal said, reaching for his stemless wine glass of sparkling water to signify the end of his words.

  
William sighed, scratching his brow. He wondered if Will shared any of his _fantasies_ with the man before him. How many times the word _knife_ came up between them. “Well, I suppose _you_ are the expert here. If you think it will help, and Will’s on board with it...” he shrugged, letting his words trail off. “You would...you would bring him here?”

Hannibal nodded, and the motion made William inhale sharply. He wondered what the man saw in his son that the other doctors had not. What made him turn away from the exit to the hospital when others would have gladly done so, waiting for William in the atrium with a sad smile and a handful of paperwork and the promise that his son would be released when he was feeling better. What made him feel comfortable enough to open the doors to his home to Will, inviting him in and settling a _knife_ into his hands? Did Hannibal see the Will he saw?

It was...an overwhelming thought, and William once more felt a thousand thank yous for a thousand things he couldn’t put into words sitting on his tongue. “Having a hard time picturing him here. He would look so out of place,” he said instead, chuckling at the thought of his son sitting in the space opposite him. Flannel shirt and tangled curls, smelling like sweat and car grease and dog.

“Will is only as out of place as he allows himself to be. My goal is to help him become confident in who he is so he will never be out of place again,” Hannibal said, punctuating the words with a bite of his food.

William wanted that too.

~x~

Hannibal had a shadow.

The thought made him smile, purposefully avoiding a glance in the direction of the battered green Camry as he crossed through the parking lot beside his preferred supermarket, cloth grocery bags heavy in his grasp. It was the fifth time he caught sight of it in the week- twice outside his office, once outside his home. Another time it was waiting for him on the corner of his bank, remaining in place despite the over half-hour-long meeting that he left behind with a scowl on his face and a business card in his hand.

He didn’t look at it too closely, careful to avoid too much scrutiny, but he was almost certain there was only ever the one occupant. The driver- a beady-eyed boy with a sloping brow and wide, cock-eyed grin.

Was it at Will’s request? Observing his psychiatrist that a part of him could not shake the feeling that something was _wrong_ with him? His mirrors reflecting the part of Hannibal that looked too much like his own to discern the difference? To accept what the mirror image meant?

Or was this a separate plan, taken of his own volition out of curiosity?

He thought of the night he watched from his stoop as the boy slid from his car, sprinting across the street and towards Will who slowed to a stop, glancing at his phone. He had been curious at first, wondering what Will would do in defense- if he would give in to his urges he bottled down for so long, snatch the opportunity between clenching jaws that would not relent until his prey stilled. His curiosity had only ratcheted when he realized they were _friends_. The friend from the program Sutcliffe had mentioned. The friend that Will did not hesitate to lunge at, hands finding his throat as easily as if they had been meant to settle there. Coming home, to the comfort of crushing the last breath out of straining lungs.

The sight was so beautiful- a tableau stretching out before him, coming to life before his eyes- that he almost forgot himself, startling to life. It was a concentrated effort to pull himself away from the spot and stop Will before he made the mistake he would surely regret- this was not the person he was meant to kill, not his promised becoming. The impulsive death of his friend would sour the idea of something meant to be beautiful, freeing. Like a once beloved and often listened to song made horrid by an attached memory.

He had kissed Will before departing to the same car that followed Hannibal now. He wondered often if the kiss was because the feel of Will’s hands on his windpipe aroused him, the promise of danger and a desire for violence a powerful aphrodisiac. Or if the kiss had been for Hannibal’s benefit, a marking of his territory. Claim staking at the sight of another predator.

Will’s brain was the one encased with mirrors, but like had a way of recognizing like. A language with no translation that could only be spoken by those who were born with it.

The car followed him home and was still there moments later when he left. It sat three cars behind him all the way to the bus station but didn’t follow him from there. For a moment, he thought the boy had lost interest by then, but the car was still there down the street- several houses down- when Hannibal returned home, Will in tow for his cooking lesson.

Ah.

He didn't want Will to see him following them.

It would appear this was an endeavor without his blessing.

He opened the door for Will, extending a hand out to take his backpack and the jacket he slid out of with a moment's hesitation. “Why don’t you go get set up in the kitchen? We’ll need a cutting board and some prep bowls for our _mise en place_. All of it can be found in the cupboards below the island,” he said, smoothing the army style coat over the coat rack. “The mailman mistakenly left me some of my neighbor’s mail, and it appears he just came home. Will you be alright if I run it over?”

Will nodded jerkily, a hand pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Excellent. Thank you, Will,” Hannibal said as he reached to the mail sorter on his entryway table, flipping through it and grabbing several bills, holding it carefully so Will wouldn’t see the name _Hannibal Lecter_ on the address slot. “If I don’t return quickly enough, I left the produce on the counter. You can begin by mincing four cloves of garlic and slicing the onion. Remember how I showed you? The garlic-”

Will’s eyes shifted, an aborted eye roll he thought better of completing. “Yes, yes. Crush it with the blade first, I remember.”

Hannibal smiled, showing teeth. Will strode to the kitchen before Hannibal turned to leave, clicking the door closed behind him. It was dark, days shortening with the promise of winter but he found the car easily enough- hidden between two streetlamps so it sat just out of reach of both, bathed in shadows. Beady eyes followed his movements, watched as he came to a stop at the driver’s side, and leaned forward, rapping his knuckles lightly against the glass.

The window rolled down, and Hannibal kept his face neutral even as he fought against wrinkling his nose. The car smelled of marijuana- faint, hidden beneath something artificial and fragrant. Vanilla and brown sugar- some sort of compressed aerosol sold specifically to obscure the smell of smoke and replace it with cloying sweetness.

“Hello. We met before, though not formally. My apologies for the indiscretion. Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he greeted, extending a hand out that the teenager considered, lips twisting into a smirk. He gripped it, giving three aggressive pumps before dropping Hannibal’s palm.

“Hello, Mister Lecter. Matthew Brown,” he introduced, insincere formality dripping from his words like acid.

Hannibal smiled at the title, knowing he probably did the same thing to Frederick to jab at his sensitive ego. It would not bother him so easily.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Brown. To what do I owe your continued presence in the periphery of my life this past week?” His tone was pleasant, words offered with a smile that widened when Matthew blinked, his own grin turning into a stubborn pout.

“I guess he was right,” he mumbled.

Will was right, he surmised. Not so much a plan without Will’s blessing as a plan that Will didn’t see as strong enough. The thought made something warm pool in his stomach, goose flesh prickling his skin.

How exciting his new toy was turning out to be.

“Indeed,” Hannibal contended. “Will doesn’t know that you’ve taken to stalking his therapist, then?”

Matthew’s mood seemed to improve at this, perhaps catching on to the beginning of something that made his own flesh pimple in anticipation. The beginning of a game he didn’t often get to play. He licked his lips, tilted his chin upward. “No. He didn’t like my plan, but he couldn’t come up with a better one. He thinks he’s just being paranoid.”

“Do you think he’s just being paranoid?”

The question surprised Matthew, though he covered it well. There was a different Matthew than the one he presented to the world. A shrewd and perceptive Matthew, one he would get better at hiding with time but for now shifted beneath the seams in his costume- practically winking flirtatiously at Hannibal. “I think...he’s been told so many things about his brain by so many people he doesn’t trust it anymore,” Matthew answered after a careful moment of introspection. A non-answer to the question.

Hannibal nodded, humming thoughtfully. “I agree. He seems to be having a crisis of self that’s only worsened by all the people he lets inside his head. A terrible thing to have no identity,” he mused. “Do you think I’m making the situation worse, and that’s why you’ve taken to accompanying me on all my errands? Or do I simply intrigue you?”

Matthew snorted inelegantly. “That’s not a good enough reason. If that were the case, I’d have to follow around everyone who knew Will,” he said, and then, to gain control of the situation back, he added, “And no, I don’t find you all that interesting.”

“You will,” he said with a challenging smirk.

Matthew’s eyes sparkled at the promise. “Will and I were talking about you,” he confessed, voice soft and warmed with something Hannibal could not immediately recognize. Intrigue? Awe? Unbridled delight? “We had a difference of opinion.”

“Is that so?”

Lips pinched into a wide, toothless grin. “Mmhmm. See, Mister Lecter...I think that you’re a hawk,” he began, turning to glance at the center of the steering wheel, fingertips drumming an erratic rhythm over it. “Like me. And Will.”

If Hannibal were capable of such an effect, he might have purred at the admission. _Like recognized like_. “A hawk?” he said, surprise inflecting the word as it left his lips, brows raised. “A marvelous creature to be compared to. Should I be offended Will disagreed with your assessment?”

Matthew turned his gaze back to him in a slow, lazy drag. His eyes flickered down Hannibal’s face- from the neatly combed part of his hair to his somewhat protruding chin, settling at the paisley tie at the base of his neck. “Will seems to think you’re an eagle.” He said the phrase with a snort, disbelief turning the statement into an insult. A discredit to Will and a slight against the man before him.

It made Hannibal grin, teeth revealed with the pull of his lips. _An eagle_. What a clever, clever observation. Will was good at that, even if he doubted it. Distrusted his brain which knew and interpreted the world with such keenness it seemed to be a gift of prophet. He longed to ask about it further, to see if Will had given Matthew a reason for such a summation. He wanted Will’s silent applause, more than he wanted the applause of anyone else.

He would have to settle, though.

Will was waiting for him, knife in hand.

“An eagle. Well, I hope he isn’t right in that assessment. Though in the chance he is correct, I’d practice caution if I were you, Mister Brown.” He let his voice lower, the timber taking on an almost roughened growl.

Matthew lowered his head, leaned forward as if divulging a secret. “And why is that?” he whispered, enjoying the game that would end too soon.

“Because, Mister Brown,” Hannibal said, straightening his spine as he stood to his full height, Matthew’s eyes followed the movement when he reached up and resettled the knot of his tie. “Eagles eat hawks.”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthew: We talked about you  
> Hannibal: Oh my god, Will talked about me? Tell me everything he said. Oh my god, I’m freaking out right now.
> 
> Seriously, for such a dramatic show, it's amazing how memeable Hannibal's obsession with Will is. I love it.
> 
> Next up: Will starts to see Hannibal a little clearer now that he knows what to look for.


	12. Pinot Noir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They weren’t absent, though.
> 
> Absence was just as much a mask as everything else. Nothingness concealing the everything. Layer upon layer of disguises. So much effort to hide from the world.
> 
> He is hiding something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features lyrics from Nirvana's 'Heart-Shaped Box' and The Cranberries 'Zombie', rights owned to their respective copyright holders.

**Chapter Eleven: Pinot Noir**

Will glanced up as Doctor Lecter entered the kitchen, returning his gaze back to the sliced onion on the cutting board. “How is everything going in here?” he asked, standing on the opposite side of the island and peering over. Will’s lips flinched into a smile, knowing the doctor was no doubt giving a disapproving scowl to the garlic and onion skins already littering the counter. “Clean as you go, Will.”

He chuckled softly to himself. “I knew you were going to say something,” he said, making no move to clear the mess. Lecter sighed- a long, drawn-out sound, exaggerated for theatrics- as he moved to stand beside Will, gathering the refuse in his hands and depositing them into a compost bin tucked away in a cupboard.

“I leave you alone for a few minutes and you destroy my home,” he tutted good-naturedly.

“You wanted this,” Will asserted, letting his voice warble between playful and bitter. His mind was clearer than it had been in awhile- the short reprieve from school meant he could spend his days laying on the floor of his bedroom, dogs curled around him and back slowly aching as he examined his thoughts and tossed away the ones that did not seem like his own. The thoughts that insisted he should have been hospitalized, the thoughts that harbored such great fear of himself it made it hard to be in the same room as though he could separate in two to avoid being alone with his own thoughts- he tossed them in a bin marked _Chilton._ The thoughts that took delight in that fear, that enjoyed the thrill of power and longed to chase it were shuffled into a similar bin marked _Matthew._

The thoughts that sat in the middle of the spectrum, that babied him and denied the existence of the other two as if he had the power to change it through sheer force of will and ignorance- he stomped on those thoughts, spat on them before setting them in a bin marked _Dad._

He was decluttering his head bit by bit, knowing it would be useless in a few days time when he had to return to life and crawl away from the floor. And yet, despite all the cleaning he did, the careful scrutiny to determine which thoughts were his own, he was still no more certain of how he felt about the man beside him, pulling a recipe card from an engraved wooden box and setting it on a stand before him.

He took a steadying breath, fingers tightening over the knife in his hand. He thought of all the things he did know about the man.

_Former medical doctor. Values a specific image. Likes to cook. Bad choice in clothing. Sincerely insincere._

“Tonight, we will be making coq au vin, or chicken in wine,” Lecter began, carefully arranging the produce beside the cutting board. Carrots, boiling onions, a bundled sprig of thyme, a butternut squash. “Traditionally made with mushrooms, but we can omit that this evening.”

_He is an observer, notices things and set them aside for future use._

Lecter slid the carrots on to the cutting board as Will set the minced garlic and sliced onions into separate prep bowls, blade resting between them and illuminating with its reflection of the overhead light. “Peel, then chop into one-inch pieces.”

Will nodded, following the instruction as Lecter began peeling the onions, practiced hands performing the task with ease.

_Good with his hands. The hands of a surgeon. Comfortable with knives and scalpels and sharp things._

“Have you had any more instances of sleepwalking, Will?” he asked, keeping his head lowered as he continued to look at the onions, placing the skins in a separate bowl.

Will was quiet for a moment, too focused on keeping the knife in place as he slid the peeled carrots underneath the blade. “The dreams have been worse, as of late.” He didn’t mention that he started sleepwalking the other night- hours after Matthew left. He didn’t make it far though, stopping only because he stepped on Buster and the alarmed yelping of the dog woke him up.

Lecter tilted his head minutely to the side. “What sort of dreams are you having?”

“I dream about hunting with my dad,” he said, scooping the carrots into his hand and depositing them into another bowl. It seemed ridiculous, creating so many dishes for one meal. Maybe Lecter enjoyed the cleaning process as much as the cooking. Methodical. Grounding. There was a dishwasher but Lecter would wash them all by hand. He was good with his hands.

_Order is important to him- cleanliness and a place for everything, and everything in its place._

“Hunting with our fathers is often a ritual of bonding as much as it can be a rite of passage. It allows the participants to speak without speaking, learning to communicate through silence, cues, and signals so as to not alert their game. There’s an inherent level of trust and understanding required, and a successful hunt can strengthen that. Perhaps you’re yearning to return to a simpler time when your relationship was less strained and things you wanted to say were understood without saying them,” he mused, grabbing the squash and handing it to Will. “Cut it in half and scoop out the seeds. We’ll be roasting it and mashing it to serve with the chicken.”

Will held the bulbous end of the gourd, pressing the knife midway along the length and starting to cut through. It was harder than he expected, and his wrist throbbed from his weak grip. He tried it again, applying more pressure. He wondered, idly, how hard it was to cut through bone. Lecter would know. Did he make those sorts of comparisons, relating his culinary expertise to his forgone time as a surgeon? “Maybe I should be clearer. I’m hunting _for_ my dad.”

A beat passed. “Ah.”

Quiet settled between them- like a scratchy and coarse blanket- as Will cleaned out the guts of the squash before rubbing the flesh with olive oil and all the measured out spices Lecter gave to him. More spices than Will thought he had in his kitchen at home. _Cumin. Cinnamon. Thyme. Rosemary. Anise. Salt. Ground coriander._

His hands were filthy by the time he finished, and Lecter settled a hand on his shoulder to guide him to the sink wordlessly, turning the faucet on for him.

_He is tactile. He likes to touch._

“Do you ever think of hurting your dad when you’re awake, or is it only in your dreams?”

Will considered the question, chewed his lip as he thought about how much to share. Carefully guarded secrets he kept tucked and locked away behind his teeth. Shame accompanied them, spurred on by the startled looks he received from doctors before he learned it was better to say nothing at all. His self-loathing became a monster, the feeling of _wrongness_ like he was diseased twisting at him.

He glanced at Lecter, wondering how he would react. He wouldn’t react like Chilton, he already knew. And Doctor Bloom’s sad and pitying eyes would seem wrong on his face. In the end, he said it not because it needed to be said or because he had a change of heart about the merits of therapy.

He said it because he was curious what Lecter would do.

“Sometimes, yes,” he started, wiping his hands on a dishcloth and glancing at Lecter through his periphery. The man's spine straightened, and he leaned forward- a subtle shifting that Will might not have noticed if he wasn’t looking for it. “They’re the ones I feel most guilty about after, but I can’t stop them any more than I can the others.”

Lecter blinked, mouth moving in a concealed, tight motion that Will recognized seconds later. _He was licking his lips._

“How do you do it?”

Will jerked his chin, letting his eyes fall to Lecter’s hands- one hand resting on the counter, the other hanging at his side. _Surgeon’_ _s_ _hands. Tactile._ “With my hands.”

“An intimate way to kill someone,” Lecter noted and Will startled, noticing a distinct difference in the man’s voice. Nothing truly notable- as small as the subtle shifting of his body, responses and reactions Will wouldn’t have seen if he weren’t _looking_. The timber had lowered, became husky with the words.

A shiver that felt like repulsion trembled down his spine, and he took a step back, heart thudding erratically.

“Is everything alright, Will?”

His voice was back to normal with the words, and Will swallowed, wondering if he had imagined the change in the first place. If he was searching for something with such certainty he would find it that he created it, mind filling in the gaps. “I...I just don’t like talking about it is all,” he said, gaze finding Lecter’s. Absent eyes.

They weren’t absent, though.

Absence was just as much a mask as everything else. Nothingness concealing the everything. Layer upon layer of disguises. So much effort to hide from the world.

_He is hiding something._

He averted his gaze.

“Let’s pick a wine for our marinade,” Lecter said suddenly, turning towards the pantry door and holding it open for Will. He hesitated, wishing he thought to bring the knife with him even though he knew he would look odd. Suspicious. The pantry was large for what it was, but still a small room. A closet.

His chest tightened in the familiar hold of panic.

He stepped inside but moved no further than the threshold as Lecter strode to a wine cooler, studying the samples. “White pairs better with chicken and fish- because of the lower fat content. Fat adheres to tannins, making them more palatable and less bitter, and white wines have fewer tannins than reds. But it’s a hearty dish and is traditionally made with burgundy wines even though it’s chicken. A pinot noir,” he said, the words meaning nothing to Will who shifted his weight side to side. For a fleeting second, he considered stepping out and closing the door- propping it with a chair and any other heavy furniture he could move quickly.

Lecter seemed unaware- or unconcerned- with Will’s trepidation, pulling two bottles of wine from the shelving and glancing at the labels. “This one,” he started, raising the bottle in his left hand, “has notes of cherries and blackberries, with tobacco and oak. While this one-” he raised the one in his right hand now “-has a less sweet initial taste of red currants but sweeter after notes of cocoa, vanilla, and cinnamon. Which do you think?”

_He likes toying with me,_ Will realized, catching the glint in Lecter’s eye before it vanished. Settled into absence. He knew Will was lingering in the doorway, uncertain of whether to step in or run for the door. “The first one,” he answered, hoping his voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt.

Lecter grinned. “Excellent choice, Will,” he said, sliding the one in his right hand back on the shelf. “Now we’ll need a brandy-”

Will was absolutely going to lock him in the pantry if he made him pick a bottle of that too, but thankfully he plucked one off the shelf without any declaration and turned to leave. Will gave him a wide berth, moving back to the kitchen island and fiddling with the twine wrapped around the butcher paper.

They set the meat in a bowl to marinate, chicken sitting in the deep and murky red concoction, several sprigs of thyme tossed in whole with a pinch of salt. Lecter turned from Will as he set out in opening the package of bacon- thick slabs of it that didn’t look quite like the bacon he made at home from the vacuum-sealed packages, but the expensive kind from the butcher counter- and returned with two wine glasses that he settled on the counter. “Forgive me my indulgences, Will, but the connoisseur in my believes wine should always be consumed the day it is opened. Would it be presumptuous of me to hope you’ll assist?”

Will narrowed his eyes at the glasses, the wide, open-mouthed well, and the glare of the light as it bounced within the curved glass. “I’m sixteen.”

“I’m aware. It’s always been strange to me, the associations Americans have with alcohol- wine in particular. In Europe, it’s commonly served at dinner to all attendees- as important as an element of the meal as the meat and produces themselves. I’ve always thought it leads to a healthier appreciation of alcohol, where one does not feel the need to consume it in the hopes of forgetting or relaxing, but in enhancing an evening,” he explained, grabbing the bottle of wine that was still one-quarter full, holding it up to the light so the liquid sloshed against the green bottle. “I myself had my first glass of wine when I was eight years old.”

“My medication,” he countered.

“Will be fine,” he finished, lowering the bottle and pouring one glass with a flourishing twist of his wrist to stop the flow. “A small serving, approximately five percent of alcohol should fall under the limit. And you will not be operating any cars or forklifts this evening.” He stood still, bottle lowered in a half-pour towards the other glass- empty. Waiting for Will’s okay to fill it.

He gave a jerky nod. “Alright. Doctor’s orders, I suppose,” he said, keenly aware of how his own voice lowered.

Keenly aware that Lecter was playing a game with him, though to what purpose he did not know.

Lecter grinned, filling the glass modestly- not nearly as full as his own- and set the bottle back on the counter. He grabbed both glasses before handing Will his, admonishing him when he went to cup the fat well with his palm. “Hold the stem, so the warmth of your hands doesn’t affect the wine.”

Will scowled but did so, fingers brushing against Lecter’s as they passed the glass between them. His skin was warm and for some reason, it seemed odd. As though he expected the man to be cold and icy, as cleverly disguised as the rest of him. Encased in stone and granite, only to be revealed with careful chiseling.

Lecter swirled the glass delicately, holding the wine beneath his nose and inhaling slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Swirling aerates the wine, releases the full bouquet of flavor so the full experience can-”

His words came to an abrupt end when Will pointedly brought the glass to his lips and sipped, making eye contact over the glass. It was bitter, the flavor sitting on his tongue even as he swallowed and lowered the glass. Lingering on the back of his throat. “Or I could just drink it,” Will said, resisting the pull of his face, wanting to pinch his lips at the not-quite pleasant taste.

Lecter nodded, smiling bemusedly. “Or you could just drink it, yes.”

Will could play games too.

~x~

Hours later found Will sliding into the passenger seat as Matthew adjusted the radio station, shaking his head before each press of a button. “How was your therapy session, honey?” he mused, finally settling on a song and leaning back in his seat. The beat was familiar to Will, though he didn’t immediately recognize it. An older song, sitting in the recesses of his memory.

“Weird. And don’t call me honey,” he said.

“Sure thing, baby,” Matthew countered, shifting into drive. He barely glanced around him as he pulled from the parking space of the bus station, headlights casting an eerie glow on the road before them. Golden halos falling to the earth, illuminating the asphalt and the wearing paint of the broken yellow line. The trees surrounding them were left in shadows, darkened corpses with branches that reached like fingers for the heavens; threatening to pluck the moon and stars from the sky.

The lyrics began, and he recalled the song now as it erupted from the speakers around him, loud and discordant from Matthew’s tuning of the bass.

_She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak. I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks..._

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here, you know. I could have taken the bus,” he said, though he was thankful Matthew did, the long bus ride- crowded with people- didn’t seem appealing to him at the moment. The ride was shorter this way, and Matthew wouldn’t care if Will slept through it, the familiar lull of the car already stirring him. Calming him.

His dad once told him his mom would drive him around when he was a baby struggling with colic. Drive around the Louisiana back roads for however long it took for his crying to turn to fussing, and his fussing to turn into soft snores. His dad tried to continue the nightly ritual after she died, but it proved too exhausting- Will’s cries too enduring to make any drive worthwhile. Neither of them slept much the first year after her death.

_I’ve been drawn into your magnetar pit trap. I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black…_

“What did you talk about?” Matthew asked, making Will’s head loll across the headrest and look at him through half-lidded eyes. “Did you tell him you think about him during sex?”

“I don’t- I didn’t...” he stuttered, mouth opening and closing several times before pinching tightly, a flush warming his cheeks. “Fuck you,” he finally mumbled, all other words failing him.

Matthew laughed, eyes crinkling with the motion. “Sure. Do you want to roleplay? You can call me Doctor Brown, and I can test- _ow!”_

Will smacked him before he could think better of it, the punch against his arm making him drag the steering wheel, the car turning sharply across the yellow line before Matthew swung it in the opposite direction. There was a screech, rubber-burning harsh against asphalt, straining against the aluminum frame of the vehicle. He was jostled in his seat, belt cutting across his chest and pushing the breath from his lungs as the wheels rolled too far off the road, hitting the rumble strips. He reverberated with the motion, head smacking against the window and glasses slipping down his nose. The car swerved once more before Matthew righted it, returning to a smooth travel as Will groaned, rubbing his head.

_Hey! Wait! I’ve got a new complaint! Forever in debt to your priceless advice…_

“Dumbass,” Matthew muttered, bitterness warping the word. But it was gone in the next moment- his good humor returning easily. “Maybe I should drive you back. You clearly need to work through some stuff.”

Will’s breath was strained, chest aching from where the seat belt held him in place. He smoothed a hand over it, slipping his fingers beneath the belt and wincing at the radiating pain, ribs trembling. That would be a hard-to-explain bruise, he thought with a frown. “I should have taken the bus,” he gritted out.

Matthew shrugged, lips twitching. “I was already in the area.”

Will’s hand stilled, head swiveling too quickly to glance at his friend. His vision swooned into a blur of colors and indistinct shapes, shadows from the surrounding darkness encroaching into him, nausea twisting his stomach. “You- oh,” he said, head lolling. Dizzy, unsteady.

_Blurry._

_Man-eating orchids forgive no one just yet. Cut myself on angel hair and baby’s breath._

“You probably have a concussion,” Matthew stated, obvious. “Maybe I _should_ turn back...you said he was a medical doctor-”

The mention of Doctor Lecter reminded him of what he had been about to say until he moved faster than the world could keep up with. “You were _following_ him weren’t you?” The accusation lacked the bite it should have had, voice weak.

Matthew lifted his hands off the wheel for a moment, fluttering them in the air. “Guilty. Don’t worry though, he didn’t see me,” he said, though the assurance did little to ease Will’s worries, fleeting as they were. Thoughts jumbled and incoherent through the throb of his head. Had the music been this loud the whole time?

_Broken hymen of your highness I’m left back. Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb back._

“Stop, alright. Don’t do it again,” Will tried to demand, knowing the quivering of his voice made his warning too soft. He reached a hand to his head, wincing at the tenderness of his scalp.

Matthew huffed indignantly. “You don’t have to worry about it. It was boring. The most exciting thing he did was go to some overpriced grocery store. Do you still think he’s an eagle?”

_Hey! Wait! I’ve got a new complaint. Forever in debt to your priceless advice…_

Will settled back against his seat, blinking slowly as the world shifted back. Shadows falling into place, the lights of the dashboard becoming clearing without the haze of light surrounding the digital lines. No longer blurry, but harsh and sharp and concise once more.

_Hey! Wait! I’ve got a new complaint…_

“I think,” Will started, licking his lips as he considered the evening spent with Lecter. A tension in the air he could not explain but that the doctor seemed just as aware of. Though unlike Will, he enjoyed the tension, absent eyes glinting for a second so short Will might have thought it was a trick of the light if he wasn’t looking for the seams that held the disguise together. He thought of the meal they shared- Will sitting beneath the twisted pile of bones and the portrait of Leda and the Swan, a wine glass sat in his hands that tasted bitter and dangerous and he thought of rituals- sacraments sealed in the blood of God represented by wine.

He thought of the questions Doctor Lecter asked and noticed how acute his attention to detail was, how often he asked for pieces that should not have mattered. Doctor Bloom only wanted to know who he thought of killing- how he thought of doing it.

Lecter wanted to know if _using his hands_ to kill was his favorite way to imagine it or if there were others; wanted to know if he enjoyed spilling blood and tearing flesh or if he preferred something more muted. Bruises unfurling on sallow skin, breaking bones. If anguished screams or quiet cries were the symphonies that played against the backdrop of his fantasies.

The song on the radio changed, an ad for a car dealership jarringly cutting through the car. Will swallowed. “I think he...I think he gets off on it. The idea of torture and killing,” he said, remembering the distinct lowering of Lecter’s voice, the timbre dropping and becoming less smooth, less restrained. A barely noticeable change, so well hidden.

Evidently, not well enough though.

The ad ended, and the new song began, the strumming of the guitar for a few, isolated seconds before the rest of the band entered. “Doctor Bloom said he doesn’t normally do adolescent cases, but he made an exception for my case,” he said, words little more than a whisper. “I assumed it was because he was curious about my empathy disorder but maybe-”

“Maybe he wanted your fantasies for his spank-bank?” Matthew finished, and Will skewed his lips at the vulgarity but said nothing. He fiddled with the strap of his backpack, pulling at the fraying threads that stitched it to the canvas sack.

“Does that sound crazy, though?” Will asked, trying to keep his words light even as dread pooled in his stomach. “Or am I just being paranoid?”

For a rare moment that surprised Will, Matthew was quiet- eyes focused on the road ahead of them, face drawn in darkness. The music continued to play, the rough vocal-fry of the female singer dragging across his eardrums like fingernails. Sharpened talons, and he thought once more of birds and hawks and eagles stealing baby hawks from an empty nest to consume.

_Another head hangs lowly, child is slowly taken. And the violence, caused such silence- who are we mistaken?_

Finally, Matthew inhaled, his words leveled- untainted by their usual manic tilt. “He knew you were choking me that night,” he said.

Will balked, turning to him- slowly, so as not to upset the world once more- and furrowed his brow. “What? No, he said-”

“He was already outside by the time I sent you the text and chased you down,” Matthew interrupted, glancing at Will briefly. “He was watching me- there’s no way he didn’t know what you did. He stopped you before you went too far, but he had to have known.”

Will said nothing, licking his lips as he thought back to the night. Rain blurring the world around him, encasing them in glass. Separate from the earth and its rotation, from the weather that obscured everyone else from view leaving just him and Hannibal Lecter. The smell of _something, something citrus_ a viscous thing in the air of the car, breaths shared between them. _‘I saw him attack you. I know he started the altercation.’_

_In your head, in your head. Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie. What’s in your head, in your head? Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie._

He pursed his lips, mouth settling into a firm line. “I have to start seeing him Monday now. Two appointments a week. It was his and Chilton’s compromise for not hospitalizing me,” he said.

“Are you going to go? Or request a referral for someone else?”

“No, I don’t need a referral,” he whispered, the words coming from him before a decision had even been made. It was his decision though. He wouldn’t request one. Doctor Lecter had been right- knowing something _might_ be wrong with him wasn’t nearly as satisfying as knowing _what_ was wrong with him. And he was curious. Whether it was all in his head, the limping trail of his thoughts colored with paranoia, a mental illness that made it hard to trust himself or his eyes. Or if he was right- If something was wrong with Doctor Lecter.

And if so, what?

They didn’t talk for the rest of the ride, the song coming to a faded end and turning to something else that was eclipsed by Will’s thoughts, turning to white noise. Drifting in and out of sleep as his head throbbed in the residual ache, eyelids heavy and sore. He said nothing when Matthew pulled into his driveway, turning his car off and stepping out with him. His dad was home, but the house was dark- the lights from the boathouse at the bottom of the hill setting an amber halo around the structure, shadows moving across the windows. Matthew took it as an opportunity to follow Will up to his bedroom with him.

Matthew undressed him, pushing Will to sit on the edge of the bed before settling on the floor between his knees, head bowing as he took him in his mouth. Will knew he wouldn’t last long, exhaustion seeping into his bones- the warmth of the wine had long since worked its way out of his belly, but he felt it all the same. Felt the heavy heat that made his limbs drag and his head float, swoon. As though he were inebriated on something. Something heady and addicting and that he wanted more of, the lingering taste on the back of his teeth a reminder of the craving. Not enough to satisfy.

He made no move to hide his moans of pleasure or panted words, knowing his dad was too far away to hear him. And when he came, it was with a strangled cry, chest heaving as though it had been ripped straight from his lungs, flesh torn and ribs shattered. He slumped back against his mattress, eyes slipping closed as he waited for Matthew to finish their routine- the familiar feeling of something hot and wet coating his stomach, preceded by breathy groans and expletives. His head was pounding, an ache ricocheting across the curves of his skull and he was relieved when Matthew came. Relieved at the tissue tugging the skin of his stomach as Matthew cleaned him off.

There was a sharp, metallic sound- the sound of Matthew buckling his belt- that made him wince, rolling over to his side and cradling his head but making no move to lie down properly. He mumbled a quiet good-bye that went ignored as Matthew left the room, only to return a few minutes later, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of aspirin and bundled dishcloth in the other.

He set his treasures on the bedside table, pulling Will up and handing him the water as he twisted the cap off the aspirin, shaking two pills into his palm. Will sipped it, grateful though not voicing as much, and opened his mouth, Matthew popping the aspirin against his tongue.

“Are you sure you don’t want to call a doctor? Not Lecter, but isn’t your doctor a neuro-”

“I’m fine. He’ll just say to get rest anyway,” Will answered, voice hoarse. He took another gulp of water before settling under his covers. He turned to his side, back to Matthew in the hopes he would understand the silent good-bye and finally leave. He did not though, climbing into bed beside him- unbothered by the jeans clothing his legs- and grabbed the dishcloth, wound around ice cubes. He tucked himself tightly against Will- chest to back- and settled the ice to his head, smoothing his curls aside.

Will sighed in frustration but allowed sleep to drag him under, soothed by the pleasant chill against his aching scalp and the delicate tousle as Matthew played with his hair. Let sleep drag him into the too-familiar dreams. Snow on the ground, snow in the air. The weight of the gun in his hands and the crown of antlers that held the whole forest. The same dream that plagued him all week.

Except for this time, when he shoved the knife beneath his dad’s sternum- back bowing in a desperate attempt to throw him off- Doctor Lecter was watching, head tipping forward as he smiled.

Wine glass raised in silent cheers.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there anything more cursed than the term Spank-bank used in regards to Hannibal Lecter? I think not. 
> 
> I know this fandom loves making fun of (the entire BSU, really, but especially) Will ‘i wonder who’s killing all these people and stealing their organs? Let's go talk it over with my best friend as he serves me tongue and liver pate’ Graham, but the world’s most prolific cannibalistic-serial killer is such an extreme leap to make I absolutely get why no one suspected him sooner. Like at best we’d all be like “what a fucking weird dude” and move on. So now Matthew and Will are in the dangerous point where they know there’s something wrong but are severely underestimating that wrongness. 
> 
> Hoo, boy, is that a mistake. It’s also the summary of the next chapter, a part one of a two-parter; stay tuned, babes.


	13. First Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should have listened to Will.
> 
> The little hawk had no idea how vulnerable it was, sitting in its nest. A primordial fledgling with feathers slick from the embryonic fluid. A delectable first course for the hungry eagle.

**Chapter Twelve: First Course**

William awoke late Friday morning, back and shoulders sore from spending hours leaning over the mechanical mouth of the jeep, replacing the engine, and performing other maintenance work to try and have the car in working order before the first snow. He took a quick break, eating peanut butter on white bread over the sink for dinner- they were low on jelly, and he didn’t want to use the last of it in case Will wanted it in the morning on his toast. And then he disappeared into the boathouse where he stayed until the early morning hours- he was late on filling repairs, and one client was already demanding a discount unless his boat was finished by the weekend.

He was dizzy with exhaustion by the time he stumbled through the door, kicking his shoes off to sit beside Will’s own discarded hiking boots- backpack tossed beside them- but the boat was done and ready to be delivered after a few hours rest. He considered- in the brief moment where he was still awake, between the door and his bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall- if Will would want to take the drive with him. It wasn’t terribly long- an hour, one way- but there was a nice enough shopping center on the way where they could stop and pick up some groceries, a new book or two for Will, and maybe even have dinner at the diner set within the plaza. It would be a nice treat, and though it had been a while since they last went- two years, maybe- he bet Will would still love the milkshakes and _croque madame_ sandwiches as much as he had when he was younger. When he was less surly and didn’t stomp out of the room every time William entered it.

It was a nice thought, the last one he had before he fell to his bed and promptly fell asleep, only to awake at ten in the morning to his cell phone buzzing loudly and head throbbing with the tell-tale ache of sleep deprivation. He groaned, rubbed at his eyes as he reached for the device. He thought of tossing it out the window before he even caught sight of the caller ID. When he did see it, eyes bleary with sleep, he gritted his teeth, wishing he had tossed it.

“Good morning, Doctor Chilton,” he said, voice rough with sleep as he pulled himself up from the bed.

“Good morning, Mister Graham- I didn’t wake you, did I?” Chilton drawled, voice curling in something too close to judgment for William’s liking. He scowled into the phone, letting the expression sour his face in the comfort of knowing Chilton couldn’t see it.

“Just catching up on my beauty sleep. What can I do for you? Everything still set for Will to be back on Monday?” he asked, hoping to cut the conversation short.

“You tell me,” Chilton said, a teasing lilt to his tone. “Matthew Brown never showed up to school today.”

William blinked, his irritation turning to confusion. “Matthew Brown isn’t my son.”

“No, but your son is the Bonnie to his Clyde,” Chilton intoned, and once more William was grateful they were not face to face and the man couldn’t see the obscene gesture he made with his hand as he left the bedroom, steps creaking in his voyage to make coffee. It should be a federal law that no one should have to listen to Chilton until they’ve had at least one cup of coffee. “I’ve called Matthew’s grandparents and they said they haven’t seen him all night and all of their calls are going to voicemail. I was hoping you or Will might know before we went around calling the police.”

He pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder as he opened the pantry cabinet, grabbing the tub of instant coffee mix and spooning it into the filter port of the coffee maker. “I can’t stop them from talking but Matthew’s not allowed here. Will knows that.”

There was a pause. “Will knows a lot of things. Very rarely does that knowledge stop him from doing what he wants.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “I’ll ask him if he knows where Matthew is and call you back, alright?”

He hung up the phone before receiving an answer, tossing it on the counter. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as tossing it out the window would have been, but compromises needed to be made. It was the only means he had to keep in touch with his clients and all of Will’s doctors and the few moments of peace its destruction would offer him wasn’t worth the slip in correspondence. A man could dream, though.

He drank half of the coffee before realizing he hadn’t even bothered with milk and sugar. It was bitter- burned and stale tasting from the seal not being properly pinched on the lid- but it was coffee and it was pleasant enough, leaning against the counter as he sipped from the mug. He finished the rest of it on the patio, letting the dogs out and watching as they chased each other through the yard. Idly, he counted them. One, two, three, four. Five in total, but Winston was probably up in Will’s room, the ever-loyal guard dog that he was clinging to the boy. The headcount was a habit, leftover from kinder days when he and Will would sit outside together and he would joke that counting them was the only way to make sure Will didn’t sneak another dog into their pack.

Not as if it mattered, in the end. Eventually, he would find another one and William would relent on his insistence that _this_ one was going to the shelter for sure. The dogs were one of the only things that still made him smile though- a _real_ smile, not the pained grimace he played off as a smile.

He finished his coffee, offering the dogs one final glance before heading inside. They had been cooped up for longer than usual, pent up energy needing to be worked out among the frozen ground and bare trees, winter fast approaching. He frowned, wondering what day it was and if he should make plans to cut down a tree soon. There were a few firs on the property- modest ones, buried within birch and oak and all the other trees that stood like skeletons on the perimeter of their farm.

He would need to find a day to set out- would need Will’s help in hoisting it up. The decorations would have to be dug out from the basement and then hung, as though hanging up stage curtains. A theatrical set where they would play pretend at being a family. Maybe not happy, but he would settle for normal.

Christmas had a way of smoothing out the edges, everything so pretty beneath the crinkling paper, tinsel and twinkling lights.

He left his mug on the counter- a second cup in his near future- before walking up the stairs, gently knocking on Will’s door before pushing it open further. “Will?” he asked to the room, curtains pulled tightly together so that none of the late morning sun could spill in. He noticed was the crumpled pile of clothes on the floor first. One of the few stereotypes Will managed to avoid as a teenager was the messy one- he was always a very clean and organized person. Even as a child, he found comfort in things having a place, a certainty that if he looked in a drawer he would find exactly what he expected to.

The second thing he noticed was Winston, raising his head in interest from the bed as he sat nestled between two sets of legs.

He marched to the bed, his body moving of its own volition, anger flaring in his chest. A hand curled around the blanket, snapping it back and startling the two teenagers beneath the covers awake. Will jumped into a sitting position, eyes wide with confusion, blinking rapidly as he folded in on himself, knees pulling into his chest. Matthew seemed less fazed by the abrupt awakening, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms above his head before fixing his gaze on William, lips sloping into a lazy smirk.

“Morning, Mister Graham.”

He dropped the blanket, averting his gaze when he saw Will’s bare chest- pink threaded scars across the white flesh, a mottled violet and sickly yellow bruise staining the skin of his shoulder, trailing down to his sternum in a diagonal path. Will snatched at it, pulling the covers up to his chin and staring at Winston at the end of his bed, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

“Get out of my son’s bed,” William seethed, hands curling into his palm as he fought against the urge to slap the smirk off his face. Nails cut into his skin, digging crescents out of flesh. Matthew finished stretching, an exaggerated groan pulling from his chest at the action, and slowly shifted into a sitting position. He sat there, straightening his clothes, and William reached forward, bunching his shirt in his hands and tugging him off the bed.

Matthew stumbled forward, a hand coming up to try and stabilize himself, eyes widened in surprise. He was a tall and sturdy kid- firm muscles beneath the tautly pulled shirt- but William threw him easily aside, watching as he barely caught himself before falling to his knees. “Get out now,” he ordered.

Beady eyes narrowed, glancing at Will. He grinned, offered a lewd wink, then scooped down to grab his shoes and strode from the room. William was silent as the stairs echoed in a descending creak, silent until he heard the sound of the front door opening and slamming close.

“What the hell, Will?” he spat, words slanted in anger.

Winston had climbed up the bed, curled up against Will’s side as the boy rubbed at his stomach, still bunched up beneath the blanket. Still refusing to meet William’s gaze. “I’m sorry, we fell asleep by accident,” he mumbled.

William sputtered. “You think I’m mad that he slept here? Really, Will?” He bent down, grabbing the pile of clothes on the floor and tossing them up at Will. “Get dressed.”

“These are yesterday’s clothes,” Will said, but he pulled the cotton tee shirt over his head regardless, shimmying into the boxers without moving out from under the blankets.

William ran a hand through his hair, dragged it down his face. “So, what? Getting one STD from him wasn’t enough? Didn’t learn your lesson then?” he said, knowing even as he said it that it wasn’t fair, that it was an unkind thing to throw in his face. Will’s cheeks painted red, and he ducked his head, sliding out from under the blankets finally.

“It’s not like I don’t get tested enough,” he spat back, words just shy of a snarl. Winston jumped from the bed to follow him as he strode from the room, heading to the bathroom.

“That’s not a carte blanche, Will,” William huffed in exasperation, standing in the hall as Will grabbed his toothbrush from the holder and ran it under the water. “And he’s not even allowed in this house. You know you’re not supposed to be hanging around with him. He’s a bad influence.”

Will slammed a fist down on the bathroom vanity, jaw twitching with frustration. “He brought me home from my doctor’s appointment because _you_ were too busy.” The words were spat from his tongue like venom, hissed between gritted teeth and lips turning white in strain. They were a visceral thing, a proverbial slap to the face punctuated by the door slamming shut in its hinges as Will closed himself in the bathroom. The lock shifting in place was as deafening as the shot of a gun.

“That isn’t fair, Will! I have work to do. Where do you think the money comes from to pay for food, and the bills and the medication?” he shouted through the door, sighing in defeat as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Anger fluttered in his chest, like a bird beating its wings against his rib cage. Trapped within a prison of bone. He was _trying_. Trying to do it all and Will couldn’t see it, the balancing act he did every day.

Not that Will should _have_ to see it. He didn’t want him to feel like a burden or another errand on his to-do list, breaking him down to his barest components. _Get some milk from the store. Deposit a check. Make sure Will hasn’t disappeared with any of the knives or guns he kept locked up. Call a client to apologize for being late. Pick up parts from the store. Pick up Will’s anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers, and anxiety medication._

It was an unflattering way to think of anyone, especially his son, reducing him between the lines of tasks on a crumpled post-it. Things got lost in the shuffle, pieces dropping to the floor when he could not juggle them all. He hated the sound, the shattering of his failure.

He stepped away from the door, taking a slow breath in. Feeling his lungs expand. “I have to drop off a boat before dark today. We’ll talk when I get home,” he ground out. Will said nothing, the only sounds coming from the room the flush of a toilet, and the clattering of shower rings as the curtain was pulled open. “And I have to call and let Chilton know he was here, before they call the police in search of him, just so you know.” He dreaded the phone call, the condescension that would surely slope Chilton’s words. The unspoken _I told you so_.

There was a pause, and then the distinct sound of water rushing through pipes, beating against the porcelain tub.

Will had not left the shower in the time it took for William to dress and pour himself another cup of coffee- grounds dirtying the liquid. He let the dogs back in, knees creaking as he crouched down to wipe sixteen paws. He lingered in the foyer for a moment, shrugging his coat on slowly. He considered going back up the stairs, talking with Will now instead of later, clearing the hostility and indignation from the air like it was smoke from a charred meal. Like opening the window and lighting a few candles would soothe the cruel words and fraying tension.

He decided against it, figuring time apart would be best. Time for each of them to settle and move forward. There would be no dinner shared over milkshakes, but perhaps he could bring home some Chinese food and get Will to stay in the room long enough to eat it with him.

He called Chilton once he was already in the car, hoping the distraction of driving would keep him from finally giving in to the desire to throw his phone out the window.

~x~

Hannibal returned home for lunch, a few hours to spare before his final two appointments of the day. He was not surprised when he saw the green Camry sitting two cars behind him at a traffic light, lips tipping in a smirk. Ah, Mister Brown. Undeserved confidence met with an underestimation of exactly the sort of predator he was dealing with.

He should have listened to Will.

The little hawk had no idea how vulnerable it was, sitting in its nest. A primordial fledgling with feathers slick from the embryonic fluid. A delectable first course for the hungry eagle.

Matthew parked in a different spot on the street, sitting on the corner as though doing so would obscure him from Hannibal’s sight. It wasn’t a bad place to settle- Hannibal couldn’t see him from the windows of his home- hidden behind the towering hedges and garbage cans set out for collection. He was learning, becoming more cunning with each misstep. It was almost a shame to have to cut the blooming bud from the stem.

All the thinking of hawks and naked birds pecking through their shells inspired him, and after sauteing some sausage, spinach, and mushroom with aromatics, he loaded flour directly on the counter, creating a well and dropping two eggs into the hole. He scrambled them with a fork, slowly shifting it into the flour until he had enough of a dough to use his hands. It was therapeutic, kneading the dough in a motion that used his entire upper body, back muscles straining into his shoulder; biceps and triceps flexing with the motion. When he was satisfied by the texture, certain that the gluten had been activated enough to make a delicious pasta- not too gluey and thick- he rolled it out enough to fit it through his pasta roller.

His phone rang just as he was feeding it through in sheets.

“Doctor Lecter,” he answered once he laid the sheets out on his counter, dusted with semolina flour.

“Hello, Doct- Hannibal. It’s William.”

His spine straightened, surprise flicking over his face. Had something happened with Will? “William. How are you?”

The senior Graham sighed, turning the sound into a bitter laugh. He sounded distant, muffled by rushing air. He was driving, cars speeding pass his own, and creating a vortex of sound. “I’ve been better. Anyway, I was just calling because- well, I know you can’t tell me what you and Will talk about, which is fine. But I was wondering if I can’t maybe put an earworm in your head? Maybe you can direct the conversation on Monday to it?”

Hannibal held the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulled a glass bowl towards him, measuring out his ricotta and seasoning it generously. “I supposed it would depend. What is this little earworm you’d like me to gift to Will?”

Fortuitous was the word that once more came to mind when William laughed, muttered out a single name. “Matthew Brown.”

“Ah,” Hannibal mused with a knowing grin, mixing his saute in with the ricotta and adding some shredded Manchego cheese. “Will’s friend from the program.” Not-friend, more accurately.

“You know of him, then,” William said, relief making the words fluid, sinking with ease. “I’m worried about Will. I don’t think he... _appreciates_ Matthew’s disorder. And I...I mean it can’t be good for him spending time with someone like that, right? Shouldn’t he be trying to make normal friends?”

“Normality is a matter of perception, one often shattered as we grow and learn and experience the world. Though that is a matter of semantics. Surely you understand how stigmatizing Will’s illness is, and how difficult he may find it to form connections with his peers. Especially with the secluded nature of his program,” he said, putting the phone on speaker as he set it on a recipe stand, needing his full range of motion to finish his meal. Using circular cutters- three and a half-inch in diameter- he cut the pasta into discs, rolling and discarding the unused dough.

“I know, I know. And I can’t imagine how tough it is, feeling alone like that. But Matthew isn’t...he’s not a good kid. He’s not like Will,” he said, emphatically, and Hannibal paused in his cooking for a moment. Wondering if William was in denial- paternal love too great to truly see the man his boy was becoming- or if William possessed a shrewdness not unlike his son’s.

Will was not like Matthew.

He was more cunning; a predator that preferred to bide its time instead of lurching from the skies with half a prayer and confidence its skills did not match.

Still, it was _fortuitous._ Exactly the opportunity he needed and he sighed, scooping out a small portion of his ricotta mixture and smearing it on the center of his pasta discs. “I tend to agree. Will doesn’t speak often of Matthew, and as you know, unless I believe Will presents an immediate danger to himself and others, I am not allowed to discuss it. But I’ve had concerns of my own about him. I believe Will underestimates the nature of the boy’s...obsession with him,” he said, pausing between words as though considering the right one. As though he didn’t know exactly what he was prepared to say.

“You think he’s obsessed with Will?” William asked in disbelief.

“He isn’t my patient, and I haven’t met him, so it’s unfair to say,” he offered as a disclaimer, cracking an egg into his palm and carefully letting the egg whites seep through his finger and to the bowl below. He settled the yolk on the nest of ricotta before moving to another egg. “But from my third party observations, based on limited, biased information from Will that’s been filtered through his own brain as a non-issue; yes.”

Six egg yolks sat in six raviolis, glistening and vibrant orange against the creamy ricotta, bright green spinach presenting a lovely contrast against the brown sausage and mushrooms. He covered them with more pasta discs after a moment of admiration, pinching them closed. “Do you think you can broach the subject then? Maybe try to get Will to see it as an issue instead of a non-issue?”

“It’s not the most ethical, but in light of Will being a minor and the precarious nature of his companion’s disorder, I don’t think it would be frowned upon,” he said, noncommittally. He loaded the raviolos onto a dish, bringing them to the stove where he cooked them three at a time in boiling water, adding butter and homemade stock into another pan. “Has something happened to inspire this call?”

He was curious, knowing how rare it was for William to reach out. He had seen the Camry follow him to the bus station last night, even as Will waved goodbye and disappeared into the building as usual. Matthew had, no doubt, driven him home and Will wanted to keep it to himself.

What had happened on that ride home?

“It’s just something that needed to happen a long time ago,” William said after a few seconds of elongated silence. Hannibal moved the cooked raviolos to the pan, letting them simmer in the basic sauce as he added the three remaining to the still roiling water. “I never put my foot down before because I didn’t want to upset him but...I mean, everything I do upsets him anyway...”

“Of course it does,” Hannibal said, quick to add, “you’re his father, and as such you perform a role often seen as adversarial to teenagers. Will is struggling greatly, and what he wants doesn’t align with what he needs. Not to mention his paranoia makes trusting hard for him and distorts his reality.” He paused, letting the words delve into William’s brain, envisioning them seeping into the folds and coming to rest in his synapses. “Anyone can see that you are doing your best and you have his best interests at heart. You’re a wonderful father, William, even if Will doesn’t appreciate all you do for him yet.”

There was a laugh, the sound whooshing through the speaker. “It doesn’t feel like that...”

It was sorrowful. Mournful. Grieving the loss of a very much alive son. “It’s only natural to doubt yourself. I would be more concerned about your parenting if you were convinced you were wonderful at it,” he said with a chuckle, fishing out the remaining pasta and adding it to the rest, simmering in the stock reduction.

“Well...thank you,” he said, in the loaded way of his. Hoping the two words could say the thousands of others he choked on, strangled by too many things kept too bottled up. He mused the idea of writing a referral for William Graham before dismissing it, knowing it would be seen as an insult. “I should get going. I’m about to make a delivery. Thank you, though.”

“Of course. You can always reach out to me. We both just want the best for Will,” he said, wiping his hands on a dishcloth before picking the phone up and turning it off the speaker. The good-bye was quiet, curling around his ear.

Hanging up, he removed the pasta and made up two plates, topping them off with freshly grated Parmesan cheese and parsley. Satisfied, he pulled the silverware, collecting knives from his basement cabinetry instead of his kitchen. Once they were laid out on the table, he carefully wiped them down, removing any remaining fingerprints.

Lunch finished and place settings made up, he slipped his coat on and stepped outside, strolling leisurely to the corner. Matthew watched him approach, and this time he grinned from behind the windshield, rolling his window without prompting. “Mister Lecter,” he said, tilting his head in a nod.

“Mister Brown,” Hannibal greeted as he approached the car, once more bending at the waist to meet his eye level. “I see you’re still continuing this stalking endeavor. Tell me, is it working out for you?”

He hummed. “Just waiting for you to get interesting is all.”

Hannibal smiled, eyes shining. “I see. A more noteworthy adventure than school. I suppose I should at least take comfort in knowing as uninteresting as you find me, it’s still more interesting than Frederick,” he said.

Matthew shrugged. “Woke up too late for school. Will really wore me out last night,” he said, vulgar insinuation dripping from his taunt as though Hannibal wouldn’t otherwise catch it. He seemed disappointed when Hannibal was nonplussed, nodding at the words.

“Have you had a chance to eat, then? Sounds as if you’ve had a very active night and late morning, driving all the way out here. A growing young man such as yourself must have a voracious appetite. Would you care to join me for lunch?” he asked, lips twitching when Matthew’s face pinched in confusion before smoothing out, eyes sparking with manic delight. Intrigue.

“I could go for something to eat,” he said as a contorted grin stretched on his face. He didn’t bother to roll the window up with the hand crank, Hannibal stepping aside as he opened the door and pulled himself out. He was tall- taller than Will, though he wondered how much of that was from sheer height and how much was posturing. Will slinking into himself, crumpling as he walked through the world while Matthew swaggered beside Hannibal, shoulders pulled back as they walked to his home.

He thought of the night before, how carefully Will guarded himself. Playing the game that Hannibal started, following his lead to learn the rules and play correctly. Ever aware even if he didn’t know by just how much that he was playing against someone with too many cards up his sleeve for it to ever be fair. It was _fun_. Enthralling. A worthy competitor who played against Hannibal instead of the pieces and cards sitting between them.

Matthew was nothing like Will, a baby hawk snatched from the nest before he ever learned to fly.

Will was still encased in the womb-like shell; still growing. Still becoming. So close to the moments he would break through.

Hannibal was teeming in excitement for the moment, wondering what would emerge from the fragile egg. A baby hawk or a baby eagle?

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Michael Scott Voice* Matthew, you ignorant slut. 
> 
> The next chapter is the second course, of course. Hannibal sharing some devastating truths and Matthew starts to see just how interesting he can be.


	14. Main Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew hummed, disbelieving him. “That’s your excuse then? You watched Will choke me as an experiment into his psyche?”
> 
> Hannibal took his time answering, chewing his bite with methodical consideration. Counting each snap of jaw, the slight grind as he rolled the food between his teeth. He swallowed, raised a cloth napkin and dabbed at his lips. Finally, he took a sip of water, holding the glass up to the light so the glow from the chandelier was refracted in the glass, shimmering softly. “Yes,” he answered, as though it were that simple. That obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: This one is a whopper. Long boi chapter.

**Chapter Thirteen: Main Course**

Matthew followed Hannibal into the dining room, huffing out a chuckle as he saw the already arranged place settings, food waiting for them. “Someone sure was feeling confident they’d get a yes,” he said, voice warm with humor as he considered the two plates before settling down at the head of the table.

“I’ve been told I have a habit of being presumptuous,” Hannibal said in answer, pulling the seat to Matthew’s left and sliding down. “Raviolo al’ouvo with ricotta and sauteed spinach, oyster mushrooms and ground sausage.”

Matthew grabbed the knife, cutting into the pasta, shiny from the butter and stock reduction that glazed the dough. He watched as the soft yolk oozed onto the plate, cutting a piece off and popping it in his mouth. He spoke before he finished chewing, words muffled through the food. “Not bad. I guess I can see why Will puts up with you,” he said, taking another bite. “Still strange you like to feed him so much.”

“I enjoy cooking. Unfortunately, I don’t have many people to share it with, and meals are always better with company,” Hannibal said, using the side of his fork to cut into the raviolo, watching the yolk seep out.

“Strange company you like to keep though,” Matthew mused. He ate quickly, lacking the restraint Will had, pacing himself to eat with Hannibal so they both finished their meals at the same time. “Teenagers who think about killing people. Some might say you're flirting with danger.”

“A flirtation I take with great caution, Mister Brown,” he said, setting his fork down and reaching for a glass of water, sipping it slowly. It was a rich meal- butter and stock forming the thin sauce, the creamy and decadent yolk mixing with the ricotta and warm, hearty sausage. He preferred to pace himself with such indulgent dishes, allowing the flavors to settle and rest. “I am well aware of the sort of things Will thinks about and comfortable enough that if I do occupy that space in his thoughts, it is rare. You, I am a little less certain of. I understand you enjoy following people. I wonder where your fantasies take you though. What sits at the end of your mind when your stalking is complete and you’re ready to act?”

Matthew grinned wide, lowering his head and leaning forward in a coy gesture. “Oh, I bet you would love for me to tell you what I think about,” he teased. He shoved another bite of food into his mouth, leaning back in the chair as his eyes flicked about the room. They settled on the painting above the mantelpiece. Leda resting upon a chaise, skirts pulled to her waist to reveal the soft, hair covered folds between parted legs. The swan crouching low to the ground, head angled towards her with interest. “Got a few kinks, have you?”

Hannibal raised a brow. “Hardly an appropriate question to ask over lunch.”

Matthew cocked his head in the direction of the painting. “What is your definition of appropriate, Mister Lecter? You can’t exactly blame me if I’m a bit confused. Because to me...it seems like you have a very inappropriate appetite.”

Hannibal smiled wide at that, a silent chuckle trembling within his chest. “I have a healthy appetite,” he answered simply, chewing a bite before adding, “I feel as though we’re having a conversation that I do not have all the pieces to. Would you be so kind as to fill me, Mister Brown?”

Matthew scraped his fork across his plate, gathering the last few bites on his fork and shoving it between his lips. He extended his arms outward as he dropped his silverware, a broad swooping gesture- as if he were a hawk taking flight. “Gladly,” he said. He made no effort at manners during the entirety of his meal, talking unencumbered by the food working between his teeth. But now he paused, taking great care in masticating the bite, jaw working slowly and carefully. When he finally swallowed, he licked his lips. Grinned. “Will thinks you get off on it. His thoughts. The ones about torture and killing.”

“Does he?” Hannibal asked, letting concern slope his brow, tip the edges of his lips downward. “Well, thank you for bringing that to my attention. I certainly don’t want him to feel uncomfort-”

“Cut the bullshit, alright?” Matthew interrupted, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s right, isn’t he? You like making people feel uncomfortable. You like holding that kind of power over them. Their squirming gets you squirming, doesn’t it?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Hannibal took a sip of water to hide his smirk.

“You’ve developed quite a crude picture of me, haven’t you, Mister Brown?” he said, cutting into his second raviolo. “What have I done to assist you in this depiction?”

Matthew leaned forward, canted on the edge of the seat. Elbows rested against the surface of the table, and he let his head fall to rest in his palm, fingers tapping against his jaw. “Watched Will choke me, for one. I’m curious, how good it looked from your view. Were you admiring it? Or maybe you were jealous that it was me and not you?” He twisted his head away from Hannibal, turning to the painting once more. “What are you, Mister Lecter? A voyeur? Do you like to watch and get off vicariously? Is that why you’re a therapist- observing their depravity from a safe distance? Or do you like to get your hands dirty?” He looked back, eyes settling on Hannibal’s hands as he continued to cut into his pasta, eating with delicate care.

Matthew sneered, as though he found something disdainful about the appendages. Something lackluster and underwhelming. A voyeur then. He didn’t think Hannibal was capable of getting his hands dirty. Dissuaded perhaps by the polished facade, veering more towards feminine than traditional masculinity. Shrewder than most, though still easily swayed, allowing his perceptions to be contorted by all the shiny distractions Hannibal offered.

_Ornaments,_ Will had called them.

“I’m fascinated by the mind and its projections. The capabilities of the human psyche, and how unknown it is even as modern medical sciences have advanced so far in other areas. It’s uncharted territory, free for declaration,” he answered, pausing to take a sip of water. “I don’t believe in shying away if one is willing to share. The more we know, the more we can learn. Dark and uncomfortable depravity and all.”

Matthew hummed, disbelieving him. “That’s your excuse then? You watched Will choke me as an experiment into his psyche?”

Hannibal took his time answering, chewing his bite with methodical consideration. Counting each snap of jaw, the slight grind as he rolled the food between his teeth. He swallowed, raised a cloth napkin and dabbed at his lips. Finally, he took a sip of water, holding the glass up to the light so the glow from the chandelier was refracted in the glass, shimmering softly. “Yes,” he answered, as though it were that simple. That obvious.

Matthew snorted. “Would you have let him kill me?”

“Obviously I didn’t,” Hannibal answered, cutting into his final piece of pasta. “No, I didn’t and would not have.” It was the truth- the whole truth, not one sitting within petals of lies, delicate phrasing and semantics allowing him to walk the tightrope he was so fond of.

“Hmm. Shame. You would have been more interesting if the answer was yes.”

Hannibal rose a brow. “You still don’t find me interesting? Even with your belief that I only mentor the unwell to add to my lexicon of sexual fantasies? You are a hard man to please, Mister Brown,” he quipped, returning Matthew’s amused grin.

“Sexual deviancy is a dime a dozen,” he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You promised me you would be interesting, and so far you’ve let me down.”

“My apologies if you’re underwhelmed. Don’t worry though, I always keep my promises,” he assured. Then, he asked, “I’m curious about something myself, Mister Brown. Will’s father called me today and your name was the topic of conversation. Whatever happened in between you picking Will up yesterday and this moment to inspire such a call?”

“He’s just uptight,” he said, lips curling into a grin to reveal all his teeth. “Thinks that I’m corrupting his precious baby.”

Hannibal tilted his head, eyes narrowed in consideration. “Are you?”

Matthew mirrored the gesture. “Are _you_?”

“I’m trying to help Will. Help him to find peace with who he is so he can live life to his fullest potential,” he said, taking another slow sip of water.

“His fullest potential involves torture and murder.”

Hannibal said nothing, swallowing the words he would not say with his water as he continued to drink. When he settled the glass back on the table, it was with a dull thud. “I think you are bad for Will. I don’t think you respect him as an individual or his boundaries. You trample over them in your obsession to have him for your own.”

The frank and abrupt analysis surprised Matthew, reeling back until he was sitting straight against the chair, mouth opening and closing several times as he blinked in quick succession. When he recovered from the proverbial attack, he skewed his lips into a wry smirk and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m _very_ good for Will. I care about him. I think you would have been impressed by my bedside manners last night. He had a little head injury and I took care of him. Maybe I should be a doctor.”

Hannibal nodded, letting his gaze slide from his almost empty plate to the boy sitting beside him. “Head injury? Those can be serious. You must have done a good job.”

Matthew’s eyes sparkled at the praise.

“Did you help him with his head injury before or after he _‘wore you out’?_ Or was that all just part of your bedside manner as well?” He popped the last bite of his food into his mouth, watching as Matthew answered the question without voicing it. His cheeks flushed red in indignation, lips pinching into a firm line. His mood was twisting, souring now that he was losing control of the conversation. Hannibal smiled. “Is that the usual routine? You do what you want as Will- what’s the old saying? Lies back and thinks of England?”

When Matthew spoke, it was through strained teeth- as though the effort of keeping his jaw from snapping around Hannibal’s throat was making him convulse, muscles and bones trembling with rage. “You seem awfully focused on the sex life of your underage patient.”

“I have reason to be, don’t I? You’re taking advantage of him. Capitalizing on Will’s vulnerability and isolation created by his illness. The early stages of your relationship were probably spent wearing him down until it was easier to do you as you pleased. So obsessed with owning Will you don’t even realize how little he cares about you in return,” he mused as he gathered his silverware and settled them on his plate, wiping the placemat before him even though there were no crumbs. “It would be tragic if Will didn’t suffer for your misplaced affection. But as it stands, Mister Brown, you are the best of a bad situation. You are nothing more than a thread of normality that Will clings to and calls friendship-”

He paused, blinking suddenly as if in recollection. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. He doesn’t even call it that. He says you _enjoy_ him. Do you think he enjoys you too? Because I don’t think he does. I think he tolerates you.”

Matthew looked ready to strike- a python in repose as it raised on its tightly coiled body, hissing in a warning. His hands were sitting on the table, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, shivering with enough force that his knife and fork clattered gently against the table. “That’s not true. He likes me, too.”

Hannibal rose from his seat, eyes following Matthew’s gaze as he reached for the knife, pinching the metal blade and slowly pulling it away from him. Beady eyes followed its path as if weighing the merits of grabbing it and stabbing it through whatever part it could find first. In the end, Hannibal was surprised by his restraint, clearing the silverware and dishes away from Matthew without any difficulty. “You were so delighted to find another hawk you failed to recognize the most enduring fact of them. They are solitary creatures, Mister Brown.”

He left the dining room on that note, depositing the dishes in the sink, careful to keep Matthew’s knife separate. He wiped down the blade to remove any traces of the meal, but not the handle, slipping the knife into the inside of his jacket pocket before returning to Matthew, still slumped in the chair at the head of the table.

His face was fraught with emotion, fragmented between rage and despair, Hannibal’s words cutting between ribs and twisting. A wound that would never heal but would fester, rot, and fill with maggots.

“Don’t look so morose, Mister Brown. I’m not judging you. After all, sexual deviancy is a dime a dozen,” he said, lips twisting into a cruel grin. Matthew glanced at him, hate filling his eyes and making them pointed, sharp. “Come, I’ll walk you back to your car.”

Matthew hesitated, but eventually stood from his seat. His swagger was gone as he followed Hannibal out the door and towards the corner, Hannibal taking the opportunity to stride ahead. The window was still down, and he slipped his hand through it, flicking the lock on the car. In a swift, fluid motion that went unnoticed by the maudlin teen dragging behind him, he opened the door and pulled the knife from his pocket, dangling the tip of the blade between the very edge of his thumb and forefinger and tossed it under the driver's seat. He straightened as he held the door open, waiting for Matthew to settle in the seat.

The car shifted as he sat, and he reached out, pulling the door closed with an aggressive tug before Hannibal could close it for him. “Can I expect you’ve satisfied your curiosity with me, then?” Hannibal asked, leaning forward at the waist and resting his hands on his knees.

Matthew stared straight ahead, boring holes into the curved slope of his windshield. “No. I think I’ll hang around a little bit longer. You’re only just starting to get interesting.”

Hannibal grinned.

~x~

He took his time cleaning up once he returned home, washing the dishes with keen attention so that not a single smudge or speck of food remained. He dried them by hand, the dishcloth slowly dampening as he went. When the dish mat was full of upturned glasses and silverware that was evenly spaced, he returned the knife he used for his own meal into the basement before coming to stand by the large window of his living room, glancing out to the Baltimore street. It was quiet, midday at the end of the week. It was always a quiet area, filled mostly with wealthy older couples whose children had long since grown and left. Older couples who kept to themselves aside from a kind wave in greeting, who retired early in the evening and tended not to pay much attention to the coming and going of Hannibal as he moved throughout the early morning hours, obscured by night.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, finding the name high on his contact list. Pressing the icon, he held it to his ear and listened to the soft purr of the ring. Once, twice.

Alana Bloom picked up on the third ring. “Hannibal,” she greeted, voice warm with fondness. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

He frowned, realizing how troublesome his slip in communication was becoming. Now it would seem rude, his quick diversion of the topic and reaching out to her only as a means to the end. Inwardly, he chastised himself, making a reminder to be more conscientious of things not pertaining to Will. The boy was a fascinating study of course, and he was eager for the coming months spent trying to slowly push him to the precipice he dreamed of for so long, but it was not his entirety. The few months of entertainment he would glean from watching him flourish and blossom and wilt would come to pass, and there would have to be some semblance of the life he maintained to return to. It wouldn’t do to push Alana away, knowing how advantageous her dual career was. Especially when she would be distraught at the inevitable news that her favorite former patient could not be salvaged and would be arrested for the murder he fought so hard against committing. Unsalvageable, even under Hannibal’s careful guidance.

She would be shiny and vulnerable and new again, a different toy to shift his focus to when this one invariably shattered. He would hate to lose that toy now.

“I would never avoid you, Alana. I’m insulted you would even suggest such a thing,” he said, his tone loft with playful hurt. “Though I must apologize. It would appear I’m finding it harder to keep up correspondences lately. I hope you haven’t missed me too much.”

She sighed softly against the phone, the fluttery breath curling in his ear. “Jack’s been keeping me too busy to miss anything. No new girls have gone missing since Elise Nichols’s was returned, and we’re close to losing the case if we don’t get any leads,” she said, her voice dour with the mention of the elusive serial killer.

Or serial abductor, he supposed. No remains were discovered to be certain the girls were dead. It was as if they vanished, a disappearing act by a magician hiding from the applause. He would not be making them reappear though, Hannibal knew. A half-finished illusion with no end, no false back, or curtain to slip aside.

“I see we both have been wrapped up in our trades, then,” he said. Once more, Will had a way of taking hold of the conversation without ever having to be present. “I’m afraid my reason for calling isn’t entirely sociable, as tactless as it is. I’m calling to see if you know anything about a Matthew Brown, by any chance? A friend of Will Graham?”

She inhaled a sharp breath, the exhale blustering into the speaker. “Yes, I know about him,” she began, words slow and measured. She was speaking in that guarded way of hers, scrutinizing and examining each syllable before letting them slip off the curve of her tongue. “Are you having problems with him?”

He tilted his head. Interesting then, that she asked if _he_ was having problems with Matthew. Not if Will was. “Is harassing Will’s therapists a hobby of his?”

“I’ve heard stories,” she said, her tone clipped and curt. “Sometimes he would pick Will up from our appointments, but Will wouldn’t let him come to my office. He would walk to a deli a few blocks away and meet him there.”

_How sweet_ , Hannibal thought, lips curling at the gesture. Will trying to protect Doctor Bloom from the hostile attention of his non-friend, like a scorned and jilted lover who did not take to the idea of having to share him and his mind with others. He wondered how often Matthew sat outside Alana’s office, driving away ten minutes before the hour was up so he would have enough time to grab a sandwich and look impatient at having to wait for Will at the cramped and overpriced deli.

“Has he always been so possessive of Will?” he asked, a finger reaching out and settling against the glass of the window, tracing the silhouette of hedges that obscured Matthew’s car from view.

“Chilton knows more about their history than I do. Will doesn’t like talking about him,” she answered, then added as an afterthought, “Or didn’t, at least. Has he said something to you that has you concerned?”

“He hasn’t, but Matthew has.”

There was a pregnant pause that followed, and when Alana spoke next her voice was higher, strained with something like concern but too controlled to be considered hysterics. A calm sort of anxiety. “Hannibal, has Matthew been stalking you?”

His voice was forlorn when he spoke, heavy with regret and tinged- ever so slightly, not so much to overdo it- with fear. “I didn’t think there was much harm in it, at first. He’s just a troubled boy, after all, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“A lot,” she said, her words sitting just on the edge of scolding. Firm. They softened when she said, “Are you...are you okay? He hasn’t..” She trailed off, uncertain of what to say.

“I assure you, Alana, I am fine. Physically, at least. I saw him outside my home and thought to invite him in for lunch and have a discussion-”

“You what?”

Lips twitched in an almost smirk at her surprise, the high-pitched question that settled on the sharp and certain sound of the _t_. “I know, my hubris will be the death of me,” he mused, trying to lighten the conversation as though embarrassed by his slip. As though reluctantly coming to terms with a mistake he struggled to admit. “I thought that if I could talk to him, I could dissuade the behavior but he...said some disturbing things and when he left his temper- well, it doesn’t take much to rattle me, as you know, Alana. But he hasn’t driven away yet and I was wondering if my concern was warranted.”

“Hannibal, _call the police,_ ” she hissed, and there was shuffling that followed the command, as though she was shirking on her coat. “Jack and I will be there as quickly as we can, but you need to call the police and lock your doors, okay? Matthew is...he’s not like Will, okay?”

There it was again. The bitter balm of denial or keen insight. Separating the two boys and classifying them, differentiating them as though there were so many ways someone can be a _danger to themselves and others_ and these two did not overlap.

“Do you think that’s necessary? Calling the police seems extreme,” he countered.

Her voice was emphatic when she responded. _“Yes.”_

He sighed, tapping his finger against the glass. “Very well, I trust your judgment. I’ll give them a call, then.” She thanked him, mentioned calling Chilton on her way over, and then rushed through her goodbyes, eager for him to call the authorities over to see to the disturbed boy.

He didn’t want to disappoint, dialing the number to the police department after their call ended.

~x~

The sky was gray, clouds sheathing the sunlight and keeping the world coaxed in darkness. Air turned bitter cold and stinging with each breath, the sharp and biting scent on the wind that promised that first snow of the season was fast approaching. By next week, Hannibal wagered, glancing around his yard as if envisioning snow creeping up the pathway, crawling through the ornate iron fence. It was a small yard, cluttered now as several uniformed officers moved around him.

There were two cruisers pulled up to the curb, empty aside from the beady eyes staring at him through the backseat of one. He resisted the pull to smile, turning his gaze back to the sergeant taking his statement.

“You’re lucky, you know. Officer Lent just finished the car search and found a knife under his seat,” the sergeant said, lowering her notebook and pen to glance at him with an indiscernible expression. “You said you invited him in for lunch? He’s a friend of your patient, correct?”

Hannibal nodded, smoothing over the front label of his coat. “Yes, that is correct. From what I understand he has a habit of deviant behavior. Stalking, in particular. I didn’t think it was too serious- you have to understand, I’ve seen clients before who struggle with violent fantasies. It was naive of me to invite him inside in hindsight but-” he sighed, face flushing as he pinched his lips. Shrugged. “I hoped I could reach him. Treat him as a person instead of a patient. But it became clear he harbored animosity towards me during our conversation and I became concerned. I escorted him to his car and called my client’s former therapist. She was the one who advised me to call you in.”

Her eyes softened at the explanation, and she hummed thoughtfully as she scribbled something down, tipping her head. “What did he say to concern you?”

He opened his mouth, making a strangled sound of discomfort before closing it. Clearing his throat, he said, “He seems to think I’ve taken an...inappropriate interest in my patient. An upsetting accusation. He has an extreme obsession with my patient, though I was unaware of just how extreme. I became fearful that he might turn aggressive, which is when I escorted him outside. His teacher- the one who runs the program at his school- knows more of it than I do, his obsession with my patient, I mean. He instructs both of them and has for at least five years now.”

“That is an upsetting accusation. Anything to substantiate it?” she asked, eyes narrowing once more. Suspicion shifting quickly. She was shrewd. Attentive.

He liked her.

He shook his head. “Anything that lead him to the conclusion has been manufactured by his paranoia and individual delusions. Admittedly, my methods with my patient have leaned towards the unorthodox, but his father is aware and has approved of them.” At her questioning glance, he added, “I teach him to cook. He finds the culinary arts therapeutic and is keener to share when he’s distracted by the work before him. Many people find sensory distractions an excellent way of sharpening their focus and grounding themselves.”

She hummed thoughtfully, and Hannibal turned from her, feeling for his phone in his pockets. “I can give you his contact information- his father’s, of course. Not my patient’s, I’m sure you understand. You can follow up, and I’m sure William won’t mind bringing his son in to answer a few questions. He’s a single father and he gets tied up a lot, but he’ll see the importance-” His words trailed off as he made an exaggerated show of finding his phone, fumbling it between his hands- aching with cold.

“That won’t be necessary for now,” she said, waving a hand between them. “We may call you after we’ve reviewed the statements and spoken with his doctors so we can follow up but for now you’ve been more than cooperative. And there’s no need to upset your patient if we don’t have to.” She smiled then, suspicion settling further and further away from Hannibal.

“Ah, thank you for considering him. I’m sure he’ll be devastated enough- as unwell as Matthew is, he’s his only friend. I hate having to be the one to take his support from him,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I understand if the answer is no, but is there a chance I can speak with? Perhaps its the therapist in me, but I’d hate to see him leave distraught. I just want to apologize, for my hand in all this trouble.” He gave a solemn, hopeful smile, and her gaze slanted between him and the police car.

“A few minutes, Doctor. Please keep in mind, he’s seventeen but still technically a minor,” she said, turning her attention to the notebook as she filled in the gaps in her notes while the memory of his account was fresh.

“Of course, thank you,” he said sincerely, tipping his head at her in thanks as he turned to the car. It was becoming customary for them to meet this way- Matthew following his stride with glowing eyes, Hannibal bending at the waist to match his gaze. Though, he supposed, they would not meet this way again.

The window was rolled down, a slotted cage keeping it secured from any attempted escape. It cut and segmented Matthew’s face, a gird of iron dividing him into a hundred little pieces. Hannibal grinned. “Am I interesting now, Mister Brown?” he asked, voice low.

Matthew glowered, looking very much like a caged animal. A tiger locked away between acts at the circus, emaciated and defenseless from the teeth ripped from its jaw. He could snarl and bite all he wanted, but the effect was meaningless without blood and punctured skin.

“That wasn’t my knife,” Matthew said, words twisting between anger and something else. Something between intrigue and admiration.

He was impressed.

“It will have your fingerprints,” Hannibal said with a shrug.

“I’ll tell them the same knife can be found in your kitchen,” he countered, chin raised in defiance.

“Except, it can’t. Though they are more than welcome to search my kitchen. My entire home if they’d like.”

Matthew scoffed, the muscles of his jaw twitching beneath his skin. “A collection of knives not for food? Whatever do you use them for?” He paused, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. His lips parted, and something like _understanding_ gleamed in his eyes. “Maybe you’re not just a voyeur after all.”

“I don’t believe I answered that question one way or the other, Mister Brown,” was all Hannibal said, raising a hand and picking at his coat as though clearing it of lint. “You make an awful lot of claims and assumptions. Shame your violent history of delusions and lack of evidence will only further condemn you to years of treatment behind the locked doors of that special wing in the hospital. If you want to be out quick enough to pick up your preferred hobbies, I’d advise you stick with a script you can support, lest you spend the rest of your days doing the much-famed Thorazine shuffle.”

His mouth twitched, trembled into a wavering smile. “Not killing me and giving me tips to get discharged quicker? You don’t just flirt with danger, do you?”

Hannibal frowned, a look of hazy sorrow settling into his sharp features. “Mister Brown, if you showed up dead, your best friend with a history of violent fantasies would be the first and only person the authorities would consider.”

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Will would know who really did it, though. And that wouldn’t sit well with you, would it?” He turned from Hannibal, leaning his head against the headrest, back bowing with the hands tied awkwardly behind him, keeping him from fully reclining. “Whatever you have planned for him, you need him to trust you as much as possible.”

A car turned onto the street, slowed and came to a halt opposite Hannibal's home. The sleek black SUV, driven by Jack Crawford as Alana Bloom stepped from the passenger seat. Matthew followed Hannibal’s gaze, sneering at the sight of the FBI agent and consultant.

“I guess you’re right. Might as well stick to the script. You have them eating out of the palm of your hand, don’t you?” he muttered, shifting in his seat and spreading his legs wide. As though there was any control left to be stolen back, any power he could glean from his position. Cramped into the back of a police car and sent away for attempted crimes he did not attempt to commit. It was almost admirable, the toothless tiger having not yet learned its bite was useless. “Will was right. You are an eagle.”

Hannibal grinned at the acknowledgment, leaning closer to the window as he whispered- low enough that Alana couldn’t hear even as she approached from around the front of the vehicle- “be thankful I didn’t eat you.”

~x~

It was dark by the time his dad returned, the porch lights casting an amber glow and illuminating the darkened front steps as Will sat on the frozen floorboards, wrestling the thick rope from Max’s mouth. The dog growled, noise muffled from behind the knot, and Will laughed, tugging with enough force that the dog dragged forward, refusing to relent the toy. His laugh sat before him, suspended in the air in a thick fog, cold seeping into him and pinching his face red. It was uncomfortable, but he enjoyed the discomfort.

The pain was grounding. Tethering.

He ignored his dad as he came to the porch, making no move to walk up the few steps. He was holding a bag in his hand, and he raised it up some to catch Will’s attention. “I brought Chinese food for dinner.”

“Enjoy,” Will said curtly, keeping his gaze locked on Max who had risen to his paws now, hunching low to the ground and tail wagging as he pulled Will a few inches.

William sighed. “Please, Will. We need to talk.”

“I think we did enough of that this morning,” Will said, trying to keep his voice level. He was thankful for the cold- that he could blame the flushing of his cheeks on the biting chill instead of the embarrassment that lingered from his awakening. The plummeting dread of having been caught but _especially_ in such a compromising state- Matthew’s delight and lewd actions only make matters worse. He had sent him some rather scathing texts that went ignored, phone losing its charge as he slept pressed against Will’s back, following him each time he shifted until he was pressed between Matthew and the wall.

Suffocating on affection.

“Doctor Lecter called me. Something happened with Matthew and I need to tell you about it,” William said.

He let go of the rope, Max fumbling backward with the loss of tension but unfazed, running off with his prize to the opposite side of the porch- Buster following with envious glee. He gritted his teeth, crowns grinding together. _He told Matthew not to follow him anymore._

“What happened?” The words sounded hollow, detached. As if preparing for the worse even though he knew there was no reason for it. Matthew stalked him again and was caught. Surely nothing more or less. Perhaps it had unsettled the doctor, a boundary being crossed that he could not look past and had called William to tell him Will was no longer welcome as a patient.

It was not the first time Matthew upset his doctors, after all- Doctor Du Maurier in particular had taken a strong disliking to him when she found him outside her office- three days before Will’s scheduled appointment.

“He was arrested. Let’s go inside and we’ll talk more.”

He followed without complaint, dogs trailing in after them. Wordlessly, he pulled two plates from the cupboard and a fork from the drawer, sliding them onto the table as his dad began unpacking the food. “Was he stalking him?” Will asked, his tone flat.

William swallowed thickly, chair scratching noisily over linoleum as he sat down. “Yes. He also said some disturbing things that lead to Hannibal feeling the need to call the police.”

Will lurched at the name, the familiarity the warmed the sharp edges of the consonant. _Hannibal_. His father called him by his first name. His stomach twisted, coiled in anticipation of something he could not yet understand- reacting on animal instinct. _Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid._

He tried not to seem perturbed by the use of the name- _Hannibal-_ as he scooped lo mein onto his plate, sauce dark against the white dish. “It’s not the first time. Did they bring him to the hospital?” he asked, biting his tongue on asking which hospital. Matthew would call him- Will was always one of the people on his approved list of contacts when he was admitted, even though he often protested and had even once hung up on him out of spite.

He wanted desperately to get one of those phone calls now, anxiety making his stomach sour. He pushed the noodles around his plate, hesitating before taking a small bite.

“Will, he had a knife on him,” William said bluntly.

Will glanced up at that, fork lowering. He opened his mouth, words of defense sitting on his tongue before he swallowed them, knowing they would not help the matter. But they slid down his esophagus, settling in his contorted stomach like poison, curdling within him. _Matthew didn’t fantasize about knives. He enjoyed the quiet fear of shadowing, existing on the edges of someone’s life like a monster they could not see but felt when the hair on the back of their neck stood up._

Guns. He liked the weight of guns and the swiftness. The efficiency. He admired the mutilators, pictures of famous serial killers taped to his walls the way a _normal_ kid would hang posters of celebrities. Bookshelves filled with the same words written a thousand different ways as though offering more words in total to the same killers would somehow explain them. Make them less terrifying.

Matthew admired them, but he didn’t have the patience for that kind of kill.

He would never use a knife.

“Is he...is he going to be released?” he asked, words chosen with great care. He set his fork down, afraid his trembling hand would give him away.

_Something was off._

William shook his head, considering Will with a look that made him shift with discomfort. As though trying to see Will; through him, maybe. Dissect him with eyesight alone. “Not for a while. Hannibal said...he was concerned about a head injury Matthew told him about.” William swallowed, cast his gaze down to his hand as he examined his cuticles with false interest. “And this morning, you had a bruise, and Matthew’s always been a pushy kid...”

Will blanched, warmth creeping up his collar and curling around his ears. “It’s not... _no_...”

“Hannibal explained how difficult it can be for you, and I know you don’t trust yourself or others that well to see things sometimes-”

_No no no no no no-_

“It’s clear...it’s clear Matthew wasn’t good for you, but if I had known to what extent-”

The words were muffled, drowned out by the pitch ringing of his ear. As if his brain shut down, tuning in to all the wrong senses. The buzzing of the light, the _thud_ of the uneven table leg hitting the floor. His chest clenched, lungs tightening around a breath that turned and expired and regurgitated. _Hannibal_. His dad called him _Hannibal_ and _Hannibal_ said that Will’s reality couldn’t be trusted. That he didn’t know who or others were and-

_Oh._

Dimly, he was aware of the chair scraping across the floor, his dad standing beside him, crouching beside the chair. A hand grasping the back of his head in a steadying gesture.

Matthew wouldn’t be calling him tonight. Or any other night. Because _Hannibal_ would make sure of that. Because _Hannibal_ couldn’t control the rain but he could control the world around him, plucking Will from it and isolating him from the cars that blurred and shifted, unaware to the fractured glass encasing him. Nebulous and _blurry_.

The realization was sharp, stabbing his gut with an intensity that strummed through him, aftershocks trembling in his limbs. Pulse thudding harsh against his skin and whooshing loudly in his head. There was nothing to support his reasoning- no tangible evidence he could point to and say _this_. But there was evidence, things he could not give voice to or explain but _knew_.

His dad would never believe it.

Because _Hannibal_ said something else.

He felt sick, lofty. As though he was floating and drowning all at once. But he clutched to the realization like a lifeline, held it between his hands as he tried to pull himself from beneath the murky waters.

_Something was wrong with Doctor Lecter._ It became a mantra, turning the phrase over and over in his head until his panicked breaths evened out, until the dotted specks that littered his vision like a thousand imploding stars cleared and he could see his dad gazing at him with concern.

“Will?” he asked, sensing the flicker of recognition. The grounding as he pulled himself out from the throes of his panic attack.

He swallowed, swaying unsteadily in his seat. “Can I have a _Xanax_ please?”

William nodded- a quick, jerking motion. “Yeah, stay here,” he said, rising from his heels and leaving the kitchen. Leaving Will to stare blankly ahead at the kitchen as his reality shifted- wooden cabinetry hazing into the sleek modern one of Lecter’s home. _Hannibal’s home_. Formica countertops shimmering into metal. Kitchens colliding and merging until he could forget for a moment where he was. If he was in his own home- the worn down farmhouse with creaking cupboards that sat at a slant- or in Lecter's kitchen. The only part of his home that did not distract with ornaments, diverting the eyes to decorations placed just so. Sleek and metal and polished.

Like a morgue.

His kitchen was like a morgue- cool and sharp and practical.

William returned, popping open the orange bottle and shaking a pill into his palm, handing it to Will. He slid it onto his tongue, parting his lips to reveal the cavern of his mouth that his dad nodded at when the little pill was nowhere in sight. He helped Will stand from the chair, kept a hand on his shoulder as he guided him to his room. He left him with a goodnight that went ignored, a promise to talk more in the morning before closing the door.

His father learned everything he could about maintaining Will’s treatment. But he forgot the trick- forgot to check under the tongue.

Will spat the pill out into his palm, grimacing at the bitter taste of the dissolved shell. He wound it in a tissue, burying it beneath the books and magazines hidden in his bedside table and settled onto his bed.

He wasn’t certain why he had saved the pill, instinct once more acting faster than his brain. But it made sense to him. As much sense as _Hannibal_ and the fact that _something was wrong with Doctor Lecter_.

The saved pill made him feel as though he had some sense of control. A tenuous plan that would form before him, become clearer and sharper and more vivid with time. He thought once more of that kitchen _like a morgue_ and remembered his first cooking lesson. _Mise en place._

Everything in its place.

_He was preparing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to those who wanted Hannibal to kill Matthew. Hopefully, this wasn't underwhelming. Also apologies for everyone out there who didn't plan on reading a fucking novel in one go. I considered breaking this up into two chapters but then said naaah. 
> 
> Framing Matthew for a crime wasn't enough for Hannibal. He had to emotionally devastate him as well because he is Extra (TM).
> 
> Next chapter: Chilton isn't always wrong. He's right that Will is in fact excellent at manipulating. Better than Hannibal anticipated.


	15. Mise en Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His diagnosis was firm- had been since Will was a stubborn thirteen year old with hair always in need of a trim and lips permanently twisted in a scowl. Will was a psychopath. A liar, a manipulator. Prone to fits of rage and uncontrollable aggression and too impulsive. A unique psychopath- a psychopath with too much empathy- but a psychopath none the less. Oh, he was fascinated by him- longed to crack into his skull and see what sat beneath the surface.
> 
> But Will was never forthcoming, lips pinching so tightly they turned white whenever conversations veered too close to anything about his unique assortment of disorders. The rare and more common. 
> 
> Well, that was dangerously close to information about his mind. The sort of information he would normally keep tightly guarded, buried in his throat.

**Chapter Fourteen: Mise En Place**

Will sat on the floor of his bedroom, pillows propping his head up and dogs forming a warm nest around him. Crumbs littered his chest as he slowly chewed his toast, smeared with sweet jelly that he licked off his lips. It was late in the evening- early morning bleeding into darkness. The strange point of time that existed outside of something definable. A time too early for the creatures of the morning to stir and blink in the light of day; late enough that nocturnal beings were settling in from their adventures under the face of a waning moon and pinpricks of stars. A transitional time, neither one nor the other. The hours of alchemy; of change.

He had not slept, straying only from his room when he was certain his dad was too asleep to hear his creaking footsteps to make something to eat. His nausea had abated, and in its place sat a hunger. An unfamiliar pang, an appetite that would not be satisfied with food alone. An appetite that would consume him, eat him from the inside out.

His gaze did not stray from where it was fixed on the ceiling, turning it into the canvas sheet his mind projected against. His imagination, vivid as ever- so clear and sharp he could lose himself in it and sink into the theater of his mind with an ease that concerned his doctors.

He recounted to himself all the things he knew about Hannibal Lecter.

_Former medical doctor. Values a specific image. Likes to cook. Bad choice in clothing. Sincerely insincere. He is an observer, notices things and set them aside for future use. Good with his hands. The hands of a surgeon. Comfortable with knives and scalpels and sharp things. Order is important to him- cleanliness and a place for everything, and everything in its place. He is tactile. He likes to touch. He is hiding something. He likes toying with me._

Each recollection brought with it a memory, made of concise lines and saturated colors. Memories he could sink his teeth into, turning into nourishment for the hunger that sat like a beast in his belly. Knives passed between hands, words that were pointed on both ends- weighted with implications and double entendres that Will realized he was only just now beginning to understand.

_He framed Matthew._

It was an extreme notion- one that the reasonable aspect of his brain tried to dismiss, tried to smooth over with the reminder of his _paranoia_. But he was certain. Certain in a way he could not define or explain.

_Matthew was stalking Lecter and instead of reporting it or dropping Will as a patient, he framed Matthew._

Why?

Had Matthew seen something? The _something he was hiding_?

Or was there something else? Another reason to do away with the troublesome teen who stamped on his boundaries and privacy?

His back ached, shoulders and tailbone numb from the unforgiving floor but he remained, shifting his position with a wince. The pain was, tethering him to the moment and the thoughts as he untangled them.

_He was isolating Will._

That was why he framed Matthew. Why his dad called Lecter _Hannibal_ and why _Hannibal_ told his dad that Will struggled with his perception of reality. He was taking control of the narrative, prying it away from Will’s fingers. Making him powerless, ripping his teeth out so any bite Will could give in defense would not puncture skin.

He was not trying to help Will with his instability. _He was weaponizing it._

The hunger in his stomach twisted at the thought, and he licked his fingers, sucking them between his lips to clean them of the sticky remains of jelly. Rage simmered beneath his flesh, churning his blood in his veins and his pulse quickened. Indignant at the vulnerability being forced upon him, the peeling of his layers to expose his nerves and the soft and delicate innards.

Frustrated at the question he could not answer, sitting just out of reach of his fumbling hands. _Why_?

To discredit Will, obviously. Invalidate any complaints he could make against Lecter. Turn everything he said into the meaningless words of the deranged who did not perceive the world or themselves or others correctly. But for what end? What was he guarding against, ripping Will’s defenses away and fashioning them like a suit of armor for himself?

Will had nothing substantial against him- his _intuition_ and _certainty_ would crumble under the scrutiny needed for his claims to matter.

He grunted into the silent room, Max and Zoe startling from sleep to glance at him with wide brown eyes. He rubbed Zoe’s chin and Max’s back to settle them, shushing softly in apology. There was something beyond cruel in the machinations. Taking someone already vulnerable and crippling them further- someone he was supposed to help and protect.

It was maddening, seeing the planting of the seeds to be sowed and knowing there was nothing he could do. Powerless before being entirely stripped of his power. Like watching a magician and seeing through the sleight of hand, watching with a frown as the hand not flourishing a wand knocked against the box to shift the curtain in place. An act that would be finished nonetheless- that the less shrewd audience would applaud and gawk at- not knowing the act was all a fallacy. A poor production of magic that failed to delight Will.

He was hiding something. Will’s instability was the sleight of hand, the flourish to hide and distract from the vanishing act.

Will wasn’t unstable, though.

He never felt more grounded, in fact. Grounded in the certainty of all the things he knew about Hannibal Lecter that told him there was something wrong about the things he didn’t know. He toyed, fleetingly, with the thought of stalking the man himself. Seeing what it was that Matthew saw or might have seen before Lecter made him disappear behind the curtain with what was supposed to be a flourish of a wand but Will saw was in fact the knock against the box.

He would be caught, though.

Lecter was perceptive. He would know Will was searching for something, looking for the seams he hid so well. Hid behind flourishing hands and ornaments and-

Will blinked up at his ceiling, lips parting and forming an _‘o’_ shape. It came to him slowly at first, like the dragging pull of waves as they slid from the shore and returned to the ocean. Pieces snapping together, the picture before him becoming clearer. The pill sat in his bedside table like a promise, the beginning of a plan that settled in the folds of his brain.

Lecter could weaponize Will’s instability. But so could Will.

Distract him with an ornament of his own.

He twisted onto his side, pulling his phone to him and opening up the web browsing app. There was no history established- he never used it. He abstained from social media and frivolous websites because the internet was a wasteland. An open gate into a cemetery of temptation he did not feel strong enough to resist.

It felt like an opportunity now. Pages upon pages available to him, becoming the bedrock and foundation of his plan. He read- _prepared_ \- for hours. Until his eyes stung and were heavy as syrup and the sun filtered through his window. Until he fell asleep on the floor, surrounded by dogs and the soft creaking of floorboards as his dad woke for the day.

When he dreamed of _snow on the ground, snow in the air, gun in hand_ , the forest was held aloft on the crown of antlers but they protruded not from the stag but from the neat coif of silver and blond hair. Face like a skull with shadows swallowing the hollow of the high cheekbones and thin lips pulled into the slight, barely-there grin. Wine swirled- _aerated_ \- in his grasp, blood red and clinging to the glass.

He raised the gun, finger slipping within the trigger guard and pressing down hard. The explosion boomed, echoed and hung in the air and the muzzle smoked, gunpowder acrid as it burned the inside of his nose. The glass of wine held between manicured hands shattered, fragments of glass erupting outward as though it were a blossoming flower. Shards fell, turning to snowflakes that glittered and disappeared at his feet.

Wine and blood mixed, turning the white snow red as Hannibal Lecter fell, his grin still fixed in place.

~x~

Monday, eight in the morning.

Chilton sighed as he pushed the door to his office open, gaze meeting Will’s own before the teen averted it, blue eyes flicking from behind the frames of his glasses. He looked disheveled- more so than his usual dishevelment, curls tangled in a manner that was less casually tousled and more dragged through the forest floor. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a twig or two wound within the locks, dead leaves clinging to his scalp.

His clothes were wrinkled, dog hair clinging to the jean jacket and the skin below his eyes was swollen, indigo against his pale flesh. His leg shook anxiously and he shifted, shoulders shirking as he appeared ready to bolt.

Chilton glanced over his form, tsking softly when he realized Will was sitting on his hands. “Hands where I can see them, Will,” he reminded as he rounded over to his desk, walking with his body twisted so he did not once turn his back on the boy.

Will scowled, but pulled his hands to rest over his thighs, fingers splayed over the jeans. The leather chair groaned as he sat down, wheels rolling over linoleum when he pushed himself close to his desk and folded his hands over the sealed wood surface. He rose a brow. “Here we are again, one week later,” he began, sighing heavily. Theatrically. One week and yet, so much had changed.

He tried to defer Will’s commencement in the program by another week, concerned by Matthew’s arrest only steps away from Hannibal Lecter’s home. Had spent nearly an hour on the phone with Lecter as he tried to garner his support for when he approached the school board, hoping the man would be so unsettled by Matthew’s actions he would surely see the imminent danger Will presented. Finally see it for what it was instead of falling for the pouted lips and wide, kicked puppy eyes that Alana Bloom had fallen for.

He refused, stating his belief that Matthew acted of his own will, spurred by his own obsession with Will and jealousy for others in his life. It wouldn’t be fair to punish Will in place of others, he said.

Chilton sneered at the memory, turning his scoff into a sputtering cough he lazily covered with his elbow when Will turned to him. “I suppose we’ll start this counseling session by addressing the elephant in the room. Or...not in the room. Matthew Brown nearly attacked your therapist,” he said, lips pulling into a smirk when Will swallowed harshly, eyes fixing on the shelves just above Chilton’s head. “This is the part where I ask your favorite question; _how did that make you feel?”_

Will winced, lips pulling into a frown for only a second before straightening. He blinked, slowly raising a hand to push his glasses up along the bridge of his nose. “I...I don’t know.”

_Of course, you don’t,_ he thought. Will never knew what he felt or at least claimed he didn’t. Evasive as always, treating his words as though they were a rare and precious finite resource. He shifted some papers on his desk, a retort forming on his lips when Will added, in a soft voice, “Relieved, almost. My head's a lot quieter now that he’s gone.”

The retort melted on his tongue and slipped down his throat. He glanced at Will from underneath his lashes, considering him for a moment. His diagnosis was firm- had been since Will was a stubborn thirteen year old with hair always in need of a trim and lips permanently twisted in a scowl. Will was a psychopath. A liar, a manipulator. Prone to fits of rage and uncontrollable aggression and too impulsive.

A unique psychopath- _a psychopath with too much empathy-_ but a psychopath none the less. Oh, he was fascinated by him- longed to crack into his skull and see what sat beneath the surface. Pride would swell in his chest when he ran into colleagues whose respect for him had faltered and he could say with glee that the most coveted patient in psychiatric circles was his own- ripe for the psychoanalysis. That his few articles on Will had garnered him a modicum of fame, soothing his bruised and tender ego from that whole _Gideon_ fiasco.

But Will was never forthcoming, lips pinching so tightly they turned white whenever conversations veered too close to anything about his unique assortment of disorders. The rare and more common. The novelty was short-lived, pride replaced with resentment.

_My head’s a lot quieter._

Well, that was dangerously close to information about his mind. The sort of information he would normally keep tightly guarded, buried in his throat.

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

Will nodded slowly.

Chilton drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk. Will was manipulative. He would not volunteer this information unless there was something he wanted.

And yet, it was still so tempting-

“Do you have auditory hallucinations, Will?” he asked, sliding a notepad in front of him and clicking a pen so the ballpoint tip extended from the sheath.

Will followed the arch of the pen, lips twitching before shaking his head. “No. I just mean...it’s hard talking to someone without...absorbing their feelings. It gets tangled up and I can’t tell whose thoughts are whose up there. Matthew-” he stuttered over the name- “had a big impression. It’s getting emptier each day I don’t talk to him. Quieter.”

“Absorb their feelings? Are you a psychic now?” he taunted, looking harshly at the boy’s face as though he could decipher his motives between the pores and sun freckles on his face. A constellation that would somehow tell him what Will was playing at. He tapped his fingers against the desk once more, drumming out an impatient tune.

“No, I-” Will began, clamping his mouth shut as he thought over his words. “It’s so easy to get into other people’s heads, but I always bring pieces of it back with me. Their mannerisms, their feelings...It’s hard to explain, I just...”

He trailed off, and it was then that Chilton’s gaze slanted, caught sight of Will’s hands moving but the panic was quickly stoppered, capped off when he realized what Will was doing. Will was drumming his fingertips against his thigh, mirroring the same impatient tune that Chilton tapped out on his desk. The sound- soft over his clothed legs- came to an abrupt end when he realized what he was doing, hand flexing as he shook out his wrist.

Chilton returned his gaze back to Will’s face. “Are you trying to say that your violent tendencies are the result of Matthew’s presence in your life?” he asked, his tone dubious even as he leaned forward, intrigue like a shock of lightning through his brain. It would be a compelling case study if it were true. A psychopath made such by the overwhelming presence of psychopaths in his life.

Will shook his head, tangled curls fluttering. “I mean...I feel...off-kilter. I don’t...” his face pulled, pinched inward and he grimaced. “I don’t feel stable...I don’t know who I am and...I keep having these...nightmares...I wake up screaming and it doesn’t feel like I’m awake at all.”

Chilton put his pen down, leaned back in his chair as he gave Will a curious glance. “Why are you sharing all this now? Before you were perfectly content to spend your hour in silence. What changed?”

His lower lips trembled, eyes glassy with unshed tears that sat thick on his lower lashes, and _oh this should be good._

“I don’t want to be arrested. I don’t want to get as bad as Matthew did,” he said, words strained and strangled from the sob that constricted in his throat. “And I’ve been...sleepwalking. The other night I woke up in the woods with-” He startled, shifted in his seat as he glanced away. Tears were slipping down his cheeks now, ruddy and splotched, and it was very convincing, he had to admit. “I need help. And you always said I need to talk to get help.”

Chilton scoffed, grabbing the pen and twirling it in his hands. “I thought you liked talking with Doctor Lecter.”

Will stiffened at that, fingernails dragging coarsely over his jeans as he clutched his hands into fists, a steadying breath that shuddered and rattled in his lungs. “I...I think there’s something wrong with him,” he whispered.

Chilton rose a brow. Yes, he knew that- he had seen the police report and answered questions of his own, a Friday night ruined by all the phone calls and emergency meetings with Matthew’s other doctors. “Has he done anything to make you think that?” he asked. Lecter was _odd,_ no doubt, but the man was proper to a fault. The picture of stoic professionalism and a calm veneer that bordered on the preternatural.

Will chewed his lip- red and swollen from the fevered sobs that he tried to smooth, face flushed with the onslaught of his emotions. “N-no. It’s just a _feeling_.”

“You understand how little your “feelings” matter when you told me you think you’re unstable, right?” Chilton asked, chin lowered as he tipped his head in Will’s direction. The pen still twirled before him, a swinging metronome keeping time to the conversation.

The longest conversation they’ve had since before the boy stopped masquerading as someone he was not. Since before his damnable confession, ripping his skin apart to reveal violence and rage instead of sorrow and doubt.

Will pinched his lips. He nodded once, twice. “I know. It’s like...I don’t know what is or isn’t real anymore. I always feel like I’m dreaming. Like the world is...blurry.”

The pen came to an abrupt halt in its swinging, and Chilton pulled his notepad closer. The scratch of the pen nib to paper was loud and grating in the mostly quiet room, punctuated by the soft sniffling coming from the teen. Will shifted, a hand knocking his glasses askew as he rubbed at his eyes. “Are you...you won’t tell Doctor Lecter this, right? I don’t want him to hate me,” he asked, the words hollow and wheezing through a constricted airway.

Chilton glanced at him, taking in once more the disheveled appearance. He looked vulnerable, stripped, and raw from the events of the past few days. He thought, detached, about Lecter’s concerns that Matthew coerced Will- forced him and hurt him into their enduring friendship.

He thought of the boy Matthew attached himself to before Will joined the program- the boy whose family moved several states away when it became clear Matthew would not relent on his affections.

Will was a psychopath. A liar, a manipulator. Prone to fits of rage and uncontrollable aggression and too impulsive. But so was Matthew- an arguably more classic interpretation of a psychopath. Cruel and delighting in the pain he inflicted on others. A near textbook case down to the Macdonald triad, the sort of kid who was gifted a BB gun for Christmas and practiced on the neighborhood cats instead of tin cans. What else did he practice then, using Will as the target practice to his abuse?

He was curious, and Will was finally talking to him- spurred by the absence of a friend he confided in and a therapist he did not trust though still yearned for his approval. Stars aligning _just so_ to shatter his teeth that kept the words buried in his throat.

He smiled. “Of course not, Will. Anything you say will be between you and me,” he said, hoping it sounded sincere as he pulled his notepad closer and glanced at his clock. Forty-one minutes left. “What else would you like to talk about?”

~x~

Monday, four in the afternoon.

“Would you like to talk about your friend?” Lecter asked, watching as Will pointedly shoved a heaping forkful of food into his mouth. Gumbo.

Lecter made him gumbo.

It was good, of course. The roux was fully developed so the butter and flour tasted warm and nutty- though Will preferred the roux his dad made when inspiration and time collided and allowed him the luxury of cooking a proper meal. The sausage and spices were a pleasant heat so different from the typically rich and creamy dishes Lecter made, a warmth that tingled on his tongue and settled in his belly. Crawfish and shrimp were neatly arranged over the bed of rice, shells bright red and shiny, garnished with parsley and clipped scallions.

The dish seemed intentional. As if Lecter knew it was one of the few meals his dad made for him when he was growing up, a meal that became scarcer and scarcer until the memory alone felt like famine. As if this meal was another way of isolating and displacing the people in Will’s life.

“He wasn’t really my friend,” Will said, reaching fingers into the bowl to separate the tail of the crawfish from the head with a _pop_. “The first time he came to my house was because he followed me home. When I told him to leave me alone, he made a veiled threat about hurting one of my dogs.” He pinched the tail, squeezing out the small morsel of meat that he ate with the stewed rice.

“Were you afraid of him?”

Will considered the question, plucking up the decapitated head of the crawfish, eyes wide and unseeing. “No. I understood him. It’s hard to be afraid of something when you understand it. Things I can’t see or understand, though. That scares me.” He set the head between his lips, slurping slowly the seasoned and warm meat within the head. Brains, his dad called them when he was growing up, laughing at the way Will would crinkle his nose in the sort of delighted disgust kids employed when discovering the strange world. It was a simplification. Personifying the insect-like creatures and elevating them to something they were not. The meat was not brains. They didn’t have a nervous system, weren’t capable of the sort of complicated thoughts and beliefs and motives. Just receptors, responding to stimuli. The barest of life functions- _eat, sleep, run from predators._

He wondered if that was intentional too. A dish Lecter must know his dad made for him, served with creatures whose brains were meant to be liquefied and sucked between hungry lips. Leaving behind a discarded empty shell and a fading taste on the back of his tongue, soon to be forgotten.

The appointment passed, uneventful, and Lecter drove Will to the bus station, the containers of food warm on his lap. It took more restraint than he cared to admit to not shove the leftovers and dessert in Lecter’s face, a vivid thought of opening the container and tossing the gumbo against the parted hair and absent eyes. But he accepted them with a quiet thanks, the heat waning as the bus churned heavily on the road. The containers were cold by the time he arrived at the terminal, his dad waiting for him in the parking lot.

“How did it go?” he asked as Will climbed into the passenger seat of the truck, uncertainty settled into the fine lines of his face, bracketing his mouth and eyes. He looked older like this- worried, unsure of what to say or do.

He never seemed sure of what to say or do around Will, but he was less sure now, handling Will with a delicate hand as though the word _fragile_ was blazoned on his forehead. “Fine,” he answered, chewing his lip before adding, “Can I have another _Xanax_ when we get home?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He repeated the same trick, tucking the pill under his tongue until he could twist it in a tissue, hiding it with the other. A growing collection of _opportunities._ He sat in his room, quiet until the door down the hall opened and closed and he was certain his dad was asleep. He crept into the kitchen, pulling the leftovers from the fridge and dumping them down the garbage disposal, watching as the red shell of a crawfish spun and splintered by the hidden blades.

~x~

Wednesday, seven in the evening.

“I’ve forgotten how beautiful your home is. How long has it been since I’ve been invited to one of your infamous dinners?” Chilton mused with a chuckle, one hand holding the thin stem of a wineglass while the other reached out and brushed against the leaves of a mint plant. He was standing before the ostentatious living herb wall, nostrils flaring at all the scents. Sweet mint, clove-like basil. Rich and earthy sage- leaves thick and soft and plush between the thumb and forefinger that caressed them before moving on to the smooth mint.

“Too long, Frederick,” Hannibal returned, trailing a finger of his own against a potted mint plant. “Mint is one of those unique plants that it is advised to contain rather than plant freely in garden beds. An incredibly invasive root system ensures that it will take over any garden better than a weed. Though, what that really means is that it's better for other plants if its contained. It thrives when it's allowed to roam at the expense of the other, weaker plants. ”

Seeds and roots that grew uncontrollably, strangling the life from the other plants as it took the soil’s nutrients for its own. He always admired the hardiness of the herb, even if it proved a challenge to keep maintained. He liked challenges.

“I’ve never been one for gardening. Too much dirt beneath the fingernails,” Frederick countered, raising his hand from the plant and wiggling his fingers. Clean and soft- the hands of a man who did little work with them, callouses foreign and arthritic ache a thing reserved for the future when his body would deteriorate. When calcium made his bones too porous and they would sink into themselves, organs weakened with fatigue. Decomposing long before the heart stopped beating.

An indignity that Frederick would be saved from once Will clutched for his becoming with blood-stained hands. Hannibal smiled, obscuring the motion with a sip of his wine. It was sweet, cloyingly saccharine but it was only proper form to uncork and drink the wine gifted by a guest and he swallowed down the Reisling with no complaint. “Dinner should be done soon if you’d like to get settled in,” Hannibal said, placing his glass of wine beside his place setting and gesturing to the one opposite him.

Frederick obliged, and moments later found Hannibal serving the meal between them. “You’ve posed a delightful challenge tonight. It’s not often I entertain vegetarian guests,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice. “An heirloom tomato galette, with caramelized shallots and pesto and a balsamic reduction. Served with arugula and pear salad with honeyed walnuts.”

“You’ve definitely exceeded expectations, it looks delicious,” Frederick said, raising his knife and fork to cut into the galette, dough crisp and crinkling beneath the pressure. Hannibal smiled his thanks, taking a bite of his own. He wondered if hours from now when Frederick was crippled over in pain and clutching his sides, he would suspect the shallots which had been caramelized not in butter but in rich fat rendered from strips of belly meat. The butter in the dough replaced by the same.

He was curious how sensitive he was to animal protein.

“I had a very interesting conversation with your patient the other day,” Frederick began, lips twisting with the flair of a man with secrets he wished to divulge.

Hannibal chewed his food carefully, taking his time to respond. “And what about it was so interesting?”

Frederick’s eyes rolled, glanced at the corner of the ceiling as he shrugged. “Well, the fact that it happened at all. Will has never been very communicative. And yet, he talked through the whole hour,” he said, and there was a smugness that pulled at the words. As though he were taunting Hannibal and he wondered how much of that hour was devoted to Will decrying his therapist, pointing fingers to a man that trembled too much to matter.

“Perhaps Matthew’s arrest has been a moment of clarity for Will. Either he feels safer to speak without Matthew’s hold on him, or he’s realized the severity of his illness and wishes to seek help where once he denied it.”

Frederick hummed, thoughtful. As if tasting and savoring the information he withheld, enjoying the quiet thrum of power that came from finally having Will’s words. Deciding whether to share them or keep them for himself.

In the end, Frederick was too boastful. “Has he ever mentioned sleepwalking to you? Or night terrors?”

“Sleepwalking, yes. In fact, he called me a few weeks ago outside of our appointment time to discuss it. As for night terrors, no. He only mentioned having traditional nightmares. Have they progressed?”

Frederick’s grin faltered, dismayed to find the information wasn’t novel but recovered quickly enough, taking a sip of his wine before saying, “Indeed. I think he’s suffering from a degree of derealization disorder. He said he feels unstable and isn’t always aware of whether or not he’s dreaming.”

Hannibal chewed the idea, the tentative diagnosis gnashed between his teeth and the acidic and robust taste of the tomatoes. “Derealization disorder is often comorbid with anxiety and depression. And can be brought upon by traumatic events- especially domestic abuse. It’s possible the situation with Matthew was affecting him more deeply than he allowed himself to believe and now that he’s been removed, his psyche is scrambling under the cognitive dissonance.”

Frederick nodded, pleased that Hannibal seemed to agree with his assessment. “Not to mention, stress is the most common trigger of sleepwalking and night terrors. His mind is unraveling right before our eyes,” he said, sounding not the least bit distraught by the prospect, a twinkle in his eye that challenged the glowing bulbs in the chandelier overhead.

Hannibal nodded, something sloping and warm filling his chest, extending to the branches of his veins and burrowing in the marrow of his bones. “Indeed. Poor Will seems to be less stable by the day. Do you think intervention would be wise? We could meet with Doctor Sutcliffe and organize a more cohesive plan for his treatment.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea, though I doubt it would matter. That boy has had a one-way ticket to a padded cell for a long time,” Frederick said, leaning across the table and tapping a finger to his chin. His eyes were brighter now, shifting closer to the light and gleaming with greed. “Fascinating, though, isn’t it? All the different disorders stuffed into that one head. It's a wonder he has any room in there for his brain with all the neuroses and psychoses battling it out. We could probably wring five case studies out of the derealization alone.”

“Probably, yes,” Hannibal agreed noncommittally, gathering several leaves of wilted arugula onto his fork. “Doctor Sutcliffe should arrange for some brain scans to rule out a physiological cause, but I doubt there will be one.” There was no unusual scent clinging to the sweat-dampened curls when he met with Will on Monday. No fevered sweetness, no acrid rot of a tumor.

But it would do well for him, having the medical files verify that Will was losing his grasp on reality. That Will and his words and accusations meant nothing, swathed in the veil of insanity that would cloak him in life and in death. A funeral veil, he mused as walnuts crunched between his teeth.

He considered if Will was establishing a foundation for himself as well. Building the case for an insanity defense when his mind inevitably snapped. It wasn’t unwise, and a part of him applauded the boy’s manipulations. Crossing out the written story and writing a new narrative in its place. The jury would be kinder to him if they saw him as a sixteen-year-old boy beaten down by a mind that fell to tatters than if they saw him as a psychopath, a burgeoning young killer.

In the eyes of the law, it was better to be helpless and ill than it was to be unrepentant and monstrous.

If that was the story Will wanted to tell, Hannibal would help him. Perhaps it would be more fun that way, continuing to visit the boy long after he was hospitalized under the guise of further counseling. Stoking the killer that stirred beneath the straitjacket and under the thrum of paralytics and sleep agents to keep him soft and quiet during his imprisonment.

“You know, Frederick, with the holidays approaching, I’ve been toying with the idea of hosting a dinner party. I’ve been reminded as of late how distant I’m becoming from my friends and respected colleagues, and hosting an event seems like the ideal excuse to make amends. Can I extend an invitation to you?” he asked, details already twisting in his head. There was something stunning about Christmas, an aesthetic that could be both elegant and charming, warm and sophisticated. Shimmering crystal ornaments and gold glittered ribbon bound the thoughts together, snow in the ground and snow in the air that wrapped the world in a blanket. Quiet and peaceful and wondrous in a way that no painting or sonnet could capture. A stillness as the world straddled the twilight phase; death and rebirth. Trees like corpses outside and decorated and vibrant trees within. The end of one year ushering in the new, bringing with it hope and promise and change.

Alchemical changes beckoned to the world by blustery winds and crisp snow.

The plans for the event wound like a ribbon threading around the wrapped gift, garland twisting through bone. Menus carved from legs still warm. Carols mingling with anguished cries. Tableaus were coming to him, poetic and beautiful and seasonal. Angels from on high, silent nights and gifts of the magi. His fingers twitched, longing for the sharpened pencil and sketchbook.

“I would love to. What evening should I clear?” he asked, self-satisfied and grasping the olive branch with the enthused hold of a child unwilling to share a toy.

“Three weeks from now. The last Friday before Christmas,” he answered, considering his own schedule. Considering the Rolodex sitting on his counter beside the phone.

Three weeks from this Friday offered him seven appointments with Will. Seven opportunities to pull at the fraying knots of his sanity- manufactured for an alibi or otherwise- and push him into his becoming. It would be the scandalous talk of the party, whispered impolitely behind cupped hands and furtive glances. Alana would come, though she would hide in the kitchen to avoid the retelling of the news that would not do Will justice. Disguise her desire for reprieve as a desire to help and they would commiserate, grieve over Will and his damaged mind, set ablaze.

With any luck, Frederick would not be able to attend.

He would be otherwise occupied. Cold and resting upon the silver examination table, blood drained and replaced with embalming fluid, brain crisp, burned and singing the hairs of some poor medical student assisting the doctor instead of celebrating the end of term.

Will’s brain was on fire, but Frederick’s would be the one to burn.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a family emergency. Hopefully, this long chapter made up for the delay in updating. 
> 
> Next chapter: Will’s instability worsens as his doctors try to find the cause; Will picks up where Matthew left off, and Hannibal prepares for a dinner party, unaware he has another, stealthier shadow. 
> 
> Murder Baby Will is about to hit Hannibal like a fucking train.


	16. Marinate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t breathe a full, satisfying breath until he pulled onto Lecter’s street, parking the jeep on the corner far from his home but still visible over the hedges of neighboring houses.
> 
> He wanted- desperately- to leave the car behind and slink as close to the windows as he dared, catching sight of the man within the home and the activities he engaged in at such a late hour. But his heart was still an unsteady staccato beat, and the idea tasted too much like risk.
> 
> Another night, he decided, settling back into the seat and watching the house.
> 
> Unsure of what he was looking for but knowing he would find it eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there are some time jumps in this chapter, spanning the course of 2-2 1/2 weeks. Hopefully, it’s clear enough that it doesn’t get confusing.

**Chapter Fifteen: Marinate**

Friday, eight in the evening.

Will didn’t touch the pills that sat in his bedside drawer until a week later. His collection had grown steadily, six total. More than he thought he would have by then but his dad was desperate to fix him, catching sight of the heavy bags beneath Will’s eyes and the exhaustion clear on his face, making the teen sluggish and withdrawn. He allowed his clothes to wrinkle, wearing the same shirt several times even if the thought of it made his skin crawl, made him feel as though a layer of filth sat on his skin. It was distracting, the stale smell of laundry gone too long without a wash.

It was unusual for Will to let himself slip into such a state- his appearance skewed more towards worn than polished, but he was always clean at least. It was unusual for him- which was precisely why he did it.

Lecter commented on it during his last appointment, asking if Will's sleep habits were affecting his daily routine when he stood behind him, watching as Will diced an onion with growing ease. Will choked back a thick swallow, muttering about sleepwalking and nightmares that crept through his skull and waking up too far gone- physically or mentally- to take the time to ready for the day.

Will found his dad in the garage, folding his arms over his chest and rumpled shirt. “How’s it coming?” he asked. His dad had been working tirelessly on repairing the Jeep, a project he threw himself into with the certainty that he could fix the problems wrong with it. A certainty he did not have for his own son.

William rubbed his face, giving a lazy grin. “It runs smooth, and the new muffler keeps it much quieter than when I first had it going. Once spring comes we can start driving.”

“Nice,” Will said, lips twitching into something. Not quite a smile. “Have you slept at all?”

His dad shrugged, glancing around the garage, an artificial white light coming from the halogen lights that buzzed and flickered dimly. “Not so much. Haven’t really been able to,” he answered before narrowing his eyes at Will, concern making his features taut, wrinkles deepening. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Sleeping isn’t really the issue. It’s what I get up to when I’m sleeping,” Will answered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t so much a lie- there had been a few more incidences of sleepwalking and nightmares, waking up with feet so cold they were tight with pain, purple from the constricted circulation as he found himself on the edge of their property. But he exaggerated them and their effect, letting Chilton believe they were so harrowing and plagued him with such regularity that he dreaded sleep. Dreaded the places his feet and mind would take him when he was powerless to stop it.

William scratched his neck, letting his fingers drag up the hair on the back of his head. “Well, in a few days we have that meeting with everyone and then we'll go to Donald and he’ll do an exam. Get an MRI test and see if there’s something going on in there,” he said, voice tinged in hope that there would be something. A tangible problem they could identify and cut out and after a short stint in the hospital and a round of antibiotics, he would be back to the boy he once was.

Will frowned at the reminder of the meeting, taking in a sharp intake of breath. He had suspected it would happen, preparing himself for the onslaught of doctors' appointments that would come. Even Chilton had taken to meeting with him more, trying to capture as many of Will’s words for his articles before the boy inevitably shattered.

“Doctor Bloom gave me this drink mix a while back. To help me sleep. It’s like...tea and stuff you mix with warm milk. Do you want to try it?” he asked, tugging at the ends of his sleeve.

His dad huffed out a laugh, face softening. “Sure,” he said, his smile warm. Will nodded, offered a smile of his own, and disappeared into the kitchen. He set a small saucepan on the stove with milk to warm, then dug through the pantry until he found the box of tea mix- dented and crumpled on the side from where other food items had crushed into it. He tried it once, not so much because he thought it would work but because it was a nice gesture and he at least wanted to tell Doctor Bloom he tried. There were still eleven packets, and he dropped one into a mug, glancing around the kitchen to make sure he was alone before pulling the pill from his pocket.

It was small, a soft blue against the cream-colored counter. He tapped the Formica as he chewed his lip, wishing he had the mortar and pestle from Lecter’s kitchen at that moment. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out two spoons, resting the pill on the well of one and clamping the other down, pressing his thumb and forefinger together to crush it.

He had to repeat the process several times until the pill was fine dust and he dropped the powder into the mug, reaching for the bubbling milk and slowly ladling it in. He mixed it as well as he could, hoping the pill wouldn’t be chalky or bitter, tampered down by the blend of cinnamon, chamomile, and turmeric.

Satisfied, he returned to the garage, watching as his dad began cleaning up and slipped the keys to the jeep in his pocket. “It didn’t really help me, but I need a full-on bear tranq at this point to get some sleep,” Will said, voice warbling at his attempted joke. Pumped so full of melatonin and sleep aids since he was young his brain forgot how to sleep on his own, relying on the dragging pull of medication to snatch hold of slumber.

If the _Xanax_ was as successful as getting him to sleep- the sort of numb, full sleep that made drool smear his pillow and his head fog over for hours after waking- he was certain it would keep his Dad asleep until well in the morning.

He watched as his dad took the first sip, trying not to compare the expectant gaze in his eyes to the one Lecter gave him during the first bite of a meal. His dad grimaced, looking into the mug before meeting his son’s eyes. He gave a wry grin. “Not the best tasting is it?”

Will shrugged, chewing his lip. “Probably the ginger. Doctor Bloom swears by it though,” he said, looking bashful and downcast so that his dad would drink the rest of it if only to express his gratitude.

“Thank you,” William said, tossing it back and taking a sizable gulp.

Will nodded, silently helping him clean up the rags that littered the floor, packing up the tool case with careful movements.

He heard the first yawn after only twenty minutes. “Tired?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. His dad was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, fingers splayed to keep grease from smearing on his forehead.

“Yeah, that tea was no joke, huh?” he said, voice thin as exhaustion plunged within him. “I might just sleep on the chopped wood.”

“I can finish up here, if you want to go to bed,” Will offered, giving a shy smile when his dad glanced at him. “It’s mostly cleaned up anyway.”

William opened his mouth before closing it, gaze casting over the room before settling on Will. “Are you sure? I could use a quick shower...”

Will nodded, his dad sighing and smiling appreciatively. “If you’re sure, thank you. You get some sleep too though, okay? And try to do it in your room instead of the yard,” he said, voice trembling in a forced chuckle, obscuring his concern with humor.

Will crinkled his nose, turning away from his dad and dropping the grease-stained rags into a bucket. “No promises,” he mumbled glumly, startling when he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, kid,” his dad said, and Will swallowed, heart fluttering against his ribs as he fought against the desire to shirk away from the touch. “I know it can’t be easy, but it’s good you’re opening up more.”

He nodded, shifting his weight so that the hand fell in a more natural motion than if he had pulled away from it. William stood beside him for a moment longer, lips opening and closing several times before he sighed, deciding against whatever he wanted to say. “Good night,” he said finally.

Will gave a jerky nod in response, listening to the door close behind him. He finished cleaning up the garage, waiting until he heard the pipes rattling in the wall before he hit the button to the garage door, the mechanical groan loud as the gate lifted. A gust of cold air ushered in, gears creaking when the door locked on the ceiling. He held his breath, lungs burning as he waited for the pipes to come to an abrupt halt.

They never did, and after a few seconds that lulled, he exhaled, turning off the light and leaving the garage. He sat on the couch- living room shrouded in darkness- and listened as the shower finally shut off. Listened as his dad’s footsteps echoed across the ceiling, bedroom door swinging open and closing.

He waited, evening out his breath and steadying his nerves, running a hand down the soft fur along Winston’s back, the dog spread out beside him on the couch and head resting on his lap. He waited until the clock sitting above the mantel on the fireplace shifted, the long hand swinging almost entirely around the face before Will finally rose. He walked up the stairs on the balls of his feet, keeping close to the handrails where the support was the firmest and least likely to creak. He crept forward, down the hall until he was at his dad’s room, pushing the door open slowly.

The pale glow of the moon came in through the curtains- spread open wide, William too exhausted and unconcerned to pull them close. He was snoring- louder than typical, sprawled on his stomach and one hand under the pillow, the other splayed out across the empty side of the bed. The blanket was pooled on the floor but he seemed undisturbed by the chill of the room, the heat low without the wood-burning stove crackling with golden embers.

Will moved to the side of the bed, standing close enough that he could see his dad’s face, cast in shadows, and lax in sleep. He rose his hands, clapping them loud enough that his palms stung, the sound a sharp ricochet in the room.

The snoring quieted, eyes twitching beneath closed lids as his brow furrowed before smoothing out. The snoring began again, punctuating the stillness.

With relief loosening his limbs, Will strode through the room on soft steps, finding the keys still in the back pocket of the jeans his dad tossed aside and into his closet. He handled them carefully, ensuring the metal pieces didn’t clip together as he slid them into his own pocket before entering the closet, pushing aside the hanging clothes that acted as a curtain for the gun safe. It was a four-digit pin lock, and he pursed his lips in thought before punching in the number unfamiliar to him but well known. His mom’s birthday.

The locking mechanism clicked, and he held the heavy door as he slowly swung it open, considering the small collection offered to him. Nothing big or showy- the smaller, the better. He didn’t intend to use it- meant only for protection for the traitorous part of his brain that demanded it. _Paranoid._

He settled on the compact Glock, knowing the slightly longer handle would help with the pull of recoil made foreign by the years since his last hunting trip. _Not as if he intended to use it._

But just in case he needed to.

He held the gun to his side, heavy despite the slim size, and closed the safe, carefully pulling the clothes back in place. He slid from the closet, glancing at his dad for a moment before pulling the blanket and gently settling it over him. When his dad still didn’t stir, the soft snores an uneven symphony, he slipped from the room, descending to the garage.

The first hour was spent driving the jeep through the back roads of Wolf Trap, becoming more comfortable with the pressure of his foot to the gas pedal. More comfortable with the steering and the angles of the vehicle as he turned it, maneuvered his way over twisting and curving roads that curled like snakes through the woods. Comfortable enough that he settled back in the seat, spiked nerves settling so that the sharp twist of anxiety would only come at the sight of approaching headlights, jaw clenching and knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

His pulse thrummed against his skin, sweat clinging to his hairline and slipping down his brow despite the partially lowered window and biting air- cold with the late evening and the season's first frost. When he could justify the meandering driving no longer, he shifted the car to the direction of the interstate, licking his lips in anticipation. The drive to Baltimore was easier than he expected, though his heart sat in his throat for the entire duration. Each car coming to follow behind him was met with dubious concern as he glanced at it from the rearview mirror, waiting for a siren or red and blue lights to flare to life.

His throat was dry, a steady current of adrenaline continuously pumping through him, expanding his capillaries and urging his heart to race. Painfully aware of the trouble he would be in if he were discovered- unlicensed and without even a permit, a gun stowed away in the glove box to boot. He wondered how far the sleepwalking excuse would get him, knowing there were cases of parasomniacs driving while still asleep, eyes open but vacant.

His history of sleepwalking was dutifully recorded by Chilton by now, but would it be enough to absolve the legal quagmire he would find himself in should he be discovered?

He didn’t breathe a full, satisfying breath until he pulled onto Lecter’s street, parking the jeep on the corner far from his home but still visible over the hedges of neighboring houses.

His home was the only one with lights still on, the rest of the street veiled in darkness. The golden glow coming from some sparse windows- the study and the foyer, Will knew, his mind piecing together the interior of the home.

He wanted- desperately- to leave the car behind and slink as close to the windows as he dared, catching sight of the man within the home and the activities he engaged in at such a late hour. But his heart was still an unsteady staccato beat, and the idea tasted too much like risk.

Another night, he decided, settling back into the seat and watching the house.

Unsure of what he was looking for but knowing he would find it eventually.

~x~

Wednesday, three in the afternoon.

Or, precisely, thirteen past three in the afternoon. Hannibal glanced at his watch with a frown, the motion noticed by Frederick who sighed, twirling slowly in his chair. They sat in a conference room in the school, finding it the easiest place for all of Will’s doctors to meet with him and his father to discuss his deteriorating health. The school didn’t release until half-past three, meaning Will’s tardiness was intentional. He never did care for doctors- no doubt three of them gathered into one room with his father was enough for him to adopt his forgone habits.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Chilton clucked, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair and curling it over his chin. “His punctuality the last few weeks was probably a fluke.”

Sutcliffe laughed, good-naturedly. “Will and punctuality never really go together in the same sentence. I’ve just started scheduling him thirty minutes before the actual time I expect him,” he said, giving a reassuring smile to William.

The door opened several minutes later, four sets of eyes turning to watch Will as he entered, shoulders slumped and bowed as he glanced quickly around the room. His eyes- muddy green beneath the fluorescent lighting- jumped between the available seating scattered around the table before falling to his shoes, where they remained as he settled in between Hannibal and William.

“Hey, kid,” Sutcliffe said in greeting, smiling fondly at Will who nodded at him in turn, lips puffed out in a pursed pout.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal greeted, leaning towards him slightly and offering a slight smile of his own, mouth barely tipping upward with the gesture.

He ignored him, gaze falling to his lap and shoulders hunching inward. It was a gesture Hannibal had almost forgotten, this shrunken and collapsing boy so different from the one who sat in his office, who sat opposite him at his dining table and sipped wine with a knowing glint in his eye that they both pretended didn’t exist. Even as he feigned instability to Chilton and the others, the charade was half-hearted with Hannibal, a ruse he knew would be seen through and made no move to amend. Hannibal played along well enough, straddling the line of coy ignorance and concerned psychiatrist.

He wondered if the crumpling was an act, a layer to his growing defense of insanity. He smelled now- a nose crinkling and pungent aroma. Not just the smell of rumpled clothing and dog and stale sweat, but the more sharp and sour scent of poor hygiene.

It was a smart and strategic play, Hannibal admitted, even if it was overwhelming to sit so close to him and the smell of unwashed hair, his natural odor an unpleasant musk of hormones.

“Will, hands where we can see them,” Chilton said, turning his gaze down to his notepad and flipping through the pages of his cramped writing. Will scowled, settling his hands on the table in a position that forced his posture to straighten. Made it impossible for him to sink into himself and become as small as he wished to be. The scent of sweat was growing thicker and Hannibal rose a brow at the genuine anxiety trembling through the teen.

He looked horrible, fully committed to his act, and selling it with admirable zeal. The skin around his eyes looked like bruises, pale flesh sallow, and his hair was a tangle of wild curls. He was deteriorating, sanity slinking through the narrow passage of an hourglass, keeping time until the moment the glass would shatter and sand would burst at the implosion.

“How have you been feeling lately, Will?” Sutcliffe asked, receiving only a caustic look from the frazzled looking teen. Brows raised and lips skewed as if to say _‘isn’t it obvious?’_ Sutcliffe had the good sense to look bashful, adding, “I know a few weeks ago you had an appointment to discuss your medication because you started sleepwalking for the first time again in a few years. Doctor Chilton says it’s gotten worse though?”

Will nodded twice, short and abortive motions as his gaze remained on his hands, examining the clean cuticles of his fingers. “His grades have begun to slip and I’ve caught him sleeping in class a few times. Plus he just seems generally...unwell,” Chilton said, flourishing a hand in Will’s direction just as William had done the first evening Hannibal met him. _Thanks for everything,_ with a wave at his son. Hannibal caught the stiffening of Will’s shoulders, the indignant snap of being talked about as if he wasn’t sitting in the room. A child dragged around by the words and whims of the adults in the room as if his presence was a courtesy and not an active role in his own treatment.

“How has he been at home, William? Any unusual changes?” Sutcliffe asked.

William glanced to his side where Will sat, eyes narrowed in an indiscernible expression, creases crinkling the thin flesh around his lashes. He was considering his words with an unusual degree of caution, chewing them thoughtfully before saying, “He’s been...different.” Blinking, he added with a shrug, “I’m just getting worried. I have a few overnight deliveries to make before Christmas- the last before spring- and I’m not sure if leaving him alone is the best right now. I’m worried he’ll get hurt or sick. Your feet were blue the other day from wandering around barefoot,” he said, turning to his son with the last sentence, words petering through a humorless chuckle as if making a joke might assuage his concerns. “You’re sure it’s not the medication?”

Sutcliffe frowned, tilting his head from side to side as if bouncing between thoughts. “I don’t believe so. Based on Will’s prior history of it when he was younger and his other health issues, I think psychological is the most likely reason, but I’d like to do an MRI just to be safe. See if there’s anything unusual or evidence of seizures. I’m free the rest of the day if you want to come by,” he said, smiling at Will as though trying to include him in the discussion.

Will shrugged, deferring to his dad with a lazy roll of his head. William nodded. “Yeah, I can drop him off. Is there anything we can do in the meantime? Something to...stop it? Like, would sleeping pills work or…? I’m just concerned. I have a lot of deliveries and stuff that I was planning to do overnight in a few weeks because I’d rather be here for him in the day but he’s been going out to the woods and we don't live on a busy street but people speed because it's so isolated...” He was rambling, running his hand through his hair. His own eyes were framed with shadows, though not as severe as Will's. 

“I can prescribe something to try, after a complete examination. Anti-epilectics are the most common form of treatment. Benzodiazepines might work as well, but he’s already on some strong pills for anxiety and I wouldn’t want to get too aggressive with that. I would like to get your signature on some forms, to approve sharing the results with-” Sutcliffe began, words interrupted by Will, his voice harsh and sharp and coarse with simmering rage.

“Can I go? I’ve got homework to do and you’re not even talking to me,” he grumbled, pulling his hands from the table and tucking them into his elbows.

“Will,” William warned, though his voice lacked the bite needed for it to be a real threat. Too exhausted, pulling downward.

“Hands where-” Chilton began, jumping when Will slammed his hands on the table before them, sending a trembling current through the faux-wood surface. Chilton’s pen shook, rolled to the edge, and clattered to the floor.

“I know!” Will said, but he was already coming to a stand, chair scraping noisily across the floor and tipping in his haste to leave. Hannibal reached out, steadying it in a fluid motion and watching with well-hidden amusement as Will stormed from the room.

He had been quiet during the meeting, preferring to watch the dynamic between Will and his other doctors. A passive observer, studying the teen like a twitching frog splayed out and ready for dissection. But he turned now, miraculously keeping the smile from his voice as he said dryly, “That went well.”

~x~

Thursday, eight in the evening. The booming and swelling sounds of _Requiem K. 626- Deis Irae_ by Mozart filled the dining room, curling around the soft tendrils of the herbs and between the ivory contorted above the fireplace. The song was low, a thrumming undercurrent to the evening, interrupted periodically by the sharp crackle of the fire as flames rose and licked at the inlaid stones of the chimney. A pleasant warmth sunk around them, golden light and deep shadows thrown against the wall in undulating motions. A metaphysical thing, like a pulse. Like they sat not within an unassuming and stately home but in the belly of a great beast, digesting.

“There was nothing unusual with your brain scan, according to Doctor Sutcliffe,” Hannibal said, glancing at where Will stood in front of the French double doors, eyes following the fluttering fall of snowflakes. He had washed since the meeting with his treatment team, curls soft and light around his crown. He still looked haggard, like death warmed over, but at least he smelled more pleasant. Like cheap soap and laundry detergent and the smell of snow that had been trapped in his hair when Hannibal picked him up from the bus station but had since dissolved. “He said he plans to run more tests, though.”

“Of course he does,” Will hissed from between his teeth, finally turning around to watch as Hannibal finished assembling the place settings. The veal scallopini they made was resting on a platter, steam billowing upward from the fragrant dish. Will pulled his hands from his pockets, running a hand through his hair before sitting down at his usual seat, before the mantel so that the twisted bones framed a halo around his head. “My dad was probably the first parent to be disappointed there wasn’t a tumor.”

Hannibal hummed, grabbing the bottle of Pinot Grigio they used for the cooking and pouring it into two wine glasses, passing one over the bread basket which Will accepted with a mumbled _thanks._ “I believe you once told me it was hard to be afraid of something you understand. Fear comes with the unknown and the unseen. I’m sure your dad was simply hoping for something with a firm diagnosis and a clear path to treatment. Mental illness presents many challenges.”

“Can’t do a biopsy on depression or anxiety,” Will said, lips pulling into his not-right smile. _Painful._ He reached for the wine, taking a discreet sniff of it when he thought Hannibal wasn’t looking and sipping it slowly.

“No, unfortunately, you cannot. Nor can you cut out whatever the source of your parasomnia is,” he countered, cutting a small bite from his veal cutlet and chewing it thoughtfully. Will was dragging his fork through the mashed potatoes, creating valleys for the sauce to spill through. He did not take a bite of food before reaching once more for the glass of wine, taking two sips before setting it down. “How have you been faring with your sleepwalking?”

One side of his mouth tipped up. “I haven’t been hit by a car yet.”

Hannibal raised his glass of wine, eyes sparkling with humor. “A reassuring prospect, then.” Will finally took a bite of his food, though the few bites were interspersed with several more sips of wine, his glass quickly emptying. “I’m worried about you, Will, jokes aside. Dangerous things can happen when your body wanders while your mind is absent.”

Will glanced at him from over the rim of his wine glass, lowering the now empty glass to the table and grimacing at the dry taste. “Dangerous for me or others?”

Hannibal took his time chewing, luxuriating in the food and the expectant look in Will’s gaze. Sharp and shrewd, the averted and sunken boy from yesterday forgotten. It was as if he kept this side of him reserved from others, a special glimpse within that only Hannibal was granted access to. It was a heady thought, owning and seeing something hidden away from others. “Both. You are at the greatest risk, of course, especially with the weather and chance of hypothermia. But I worry about others as well, Will because I’m afraid what it would mean for you. I would be remiss to not consider how your violent thoughts and tendencies might relay in your sleeping trysts. There have been a few reported cases of homicidal somnambulism.”

Will reached for the bottle of wine, pouring himself another glass. Hannibal rose a brow at it, but said nothing, watching as Will gave his new glass an experimental swirl. “How does a jury rule on something like that, I wonder?” he said, punctuating the question with a long sip of wine. Hannibal reached between them, pushing the glass of water closer in a none-too-subtle hint.

“Acquittal, typically. They look sympathetically on criminals made victims themselves by the whims of a tortured mind and lack of conscious thought,” he answered, keeping his eyes on his food as he spoke to avoid the suspicious glance Will would surely shift his way. When Will said nothing, he added, “I imagine someone who struggled for so much of their young life with mental illness would be a defense attorney’s dream client in such a case. Practically gift wrapped.”

“Such a client could probably get away with murder,” Will agreed, his tone dark and leveled. Hannibal wondered if the wine was making his inhibitions loosen, his guard slip from where it kept the words secure. He was becoming bolder in his suspicions of his Hannibal, less concerned with hiding them behind double entendres and covert gazes that lingered on his profile when Will thought such scrutiny would go unnoticed.

Not as if it mattered. In Will’s own attempts to build his defense, he only made himself less credible. Less stable. His word would have no weight against Hannibal, this game of his a blade pointed on both ends.

Hannibal shrugged in a noncommittal manner. “Not quite, but with the testimony of various doctors to support such claims of illness, it would only help build a case.”

When he finally glanced up, it was to Will studying him unabashedly now, eyes narrowed beneath the thin frames of his glasses, lips pinched tight in thought. “Careful, Doctor Lecter. Someone might think you were encouraging me,” he said, the words a whisper- a specter of his breath that settled in the space between them. Hannibal thought he might be able to smell the mint of his toothpaste, hidden beneath the sharp honeysuckle flavor of the wine he consumed with hedonistic relish. It made the words all the richer, all the more decadent and he wished it were possible to taste them.

Taste the timber and the syntax, the understanding of the words between them. Not so much pushed by Hannibal as reaching out a hand and accepting the guidance.

Will turned his attention to the food then, eating the tender flesh of the tortured calf with renewed vigor.

~x~

Will huddled in the driver’s seat of his dad’s truck, a coarse blanket thrown overtop him and his knit cap pulled low. It was cold- achingly so, the chill permeating the aluminum frame and sinking into his bones. It was the only thing keeping him awake, eyes flicking to the blue light of his cellphone and the time spread across the screen. Nearly three in the morning.

He sighed, running a gloved hand over his face, cheeks tight and sore with cold. It was still Friday when he left his home and his dad behind, deep in sleep from the crushed pills Will mixed into a pudding cup they ate together after dinner. Several weeks had passed since he first began his stakeouts of Lecter’s home, looking for something he was certain he would recognize when he saw it. His dad seemed grateful for the occasional nights of deep, satisfying slumber and had yet to hear Will coming and going from the house at the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning when dawn was only a slight rotation of the earth away and the night sky turned into a gradient of violent and pink at the horizon. The snow posed a challenge he met head-on, driving so slow the hour-long trip doubled, a breath lodged in his chest the entire trip. Thankfully, the roads and highways were sparse during the odd hours of his hunt, and the few times he slid and skidded had harmed no one but himself, chest and neck sore from the quick whipping of his body in the vehicle and heart racing so harshly he thought it would burst through.

He developed a routine, a wry part of his brain laughing at how proud Matthew would be to see him now. He was careful to switch up the car he drove, hoping the unfamiliar vehicles would be less noticeable on the quiet Baltimore street if they were not too present a figure. He never parked in the same place, or even in the same direction, sometimes angling the front of the truck or jeep away from Lecter’s house and crawling into the back seat.

Three times, he left the comfort and security of the car to creep up to the house, hidden by the velvet darkness of night behind the hedges. Lecter spent an inordinate amount of time in the study, considering the hours he kept. When most were winding down from their days and shifting away from work- settling into hot baths or on plush couches with the light of television casting a haze on the room- Lecter only seemed to be beginning.

He did a lot of sketching, the lamp on his desk an amber halo as his head tilted to the side and he moved the sketchbook about. Sometimes utilizing a ruler or protractor, but mostly working freehand. He wondered what he would find within the bound pages- the sort of things the doctor committed in charcoal and graphite. He considered- in a moment of pure insanity, he assumed- picking the lock to the home long after Lecter retired to bed and finding the sketchbook in the drawer of the desk, fumbling through and discovering the sort of art Lecter felt compelled to create at midnight.

Perhaps it was desperation. His careful watching had yielded nothing. He had no greater evidence to support his claims that there was something wrong with Hannibal Lecter than he had when he began, frustration mounting at something he was certain existed but was just tauntingly out of reach.

But there was something wrong with him.

There was a moment, clarity pulling on the obsession that was sinking its teeth into the soft and spongy membrane of his brain, where he thought it was all his paranoia. That he was seeing things that weren’t there because his mind was diseased and he was withering under the fever. And then came the evening he sat in Lecter’s dining room, head light with the wine even as it made his limbs heavy and clumsy. An evening with Mozart grasping on the periphery of his mind, the fire an oppressive heat on his back. The realization came to him with such suddenness it felt like a punch to his gut, a deep-seated ache that made nausea bubble within him.

_Lecter wanted him to kill_.

It was another piece of the puzzle which was a problem in and of itself. So many pieces with a thousand curves and edges that didn’t fit quite right. An image he could not construct because the most important pieces were still on the floor, tucked beneath furniture and away from his searching hands. _Why?_

Why did Lecter edge him towards his greatest, most sinful desires? Why did he guide Will towards his want with words wrought with insinuation and the promise that he would _help_ him? _Practically gift wrapped._ He was handing him his legal defense, offering his testimony to a crime that had yet to be committed.

_Why?_

He enjoyed it, was the first thing he considered. It was undeniable that the man derived a thrill from the promise of violence, hungering for it like a famished man coming upon a great banquet. He hid it well, but it was there behind the veil of his costume; something depraved. Something deviant.

Will was not oblivious. He was- _painfully_ \- aware of the lowering timber in Lecter’s voice when the topic shifted to his preferred course. The sheen of his eyes and the pupils blown wide with lust. He wondered how often the man grew hard as Will recounted his fantasies, taking the thoughts that plagued and tormented Will and turning them into masturbatory fodder.

It was indignant at best. Repulsive at worst, and he did not like to ruminate for too long on the possibility of it, an itch he could not scratch prickling beneath his skin.

Still, it was an extreme leap to make. Was Lecter so desperate for his vicarious fantasies he held no moral qualms about turning Will to the abyss? Sending him spiraling into something he would not be able to come back from, hands too slick with blood to climb back to the life he had?

There was nothing to be done about it, though. His fate had been sealed the moment he began his own machinations- he was prepared for it. He knew his ornament would only further paint him as an unreliable narrator to his own story. That it bore the risk of shattering, cutting his own hands in his haste to catch it.

It was a risk he decided worth taking, hoping that it would distract Lecter enough for his stalking to go unnoticed. Long enough for him to see and find the evidence that would validate his perception. Prove he wasn’t just being paranoid.

He was startled from his thoughts- mind ebbing towards sleep and his eyes snapping wide and blinking in quick succession- when a car pulled slowly from Lecter’s driveway. He hunched forward, chin resting on the steering wheel even if it felt like ice beneath his touch, and watched as the car began a lazy crawl out of the street. Quiet.

It was not Lecter’s car. Not the Bentley that Will sat in so often as he was escorted to and from the bus station twice a week. It was dark blue- a fine car by Will’s standards but humble to Hannibal’s extravagant taste. The plates were hard to see, even as it clipped pass the lights of street lamps, but it was not a Maryland plate. Did Lecter have a guest over?

Interest unfurled in his chest, warming him where the winter cold had frozen him, and he turned the keys when the car was a safe yet manageable distance away, engine roaring to life. Lights blinked on, golden beams making the frost on the road glitter, and he thought of turning them off before deciding it would be more suspicious than to keep them on.

Slowly, he pulled from his parked spot, truck lurching and churning as the cold engine tried to heat up. It moved forward regardless, jerking yet still obedient as he followed the car, Lecter’s home growing smaller in the rearview mirror.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, what I’ve gathered so far from all your comments is we all collectively hate Hannibal and will support Will in any and all murderous endeavors? Is that the mood for this? I’m on board with it, just making sure I’m in like company. Also if Tobias Budge can stalk Hannibal without being noticed, so can Will. Don’t question it too much. That’s a load-bearing plot hole, if you knock it down the whole infrastructure is gonna collapse.
> 
> Also, Will having dinner with Hannibal and downing wine is just me at any family function.
> 
> Next up; Will sees the Chesapeake Ripper in action and decides to make him his bitch :) Kris Jenner meme You’re doing amazing, Sweetie!


	17. Well-Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew admired the mutilators, Will thought, recalling the mugshots of serial killers laying around Matthew’s room. The books cluttering his shelf. He didn’t have the patience for it himself, but he admired the serial killers who did.
> 
> And the term fit Lecter. Serial killer.
> 
> It wasn’t what he expected to find and his breath was still strangled from him with the anxiety that spilled adrenaline with reckless abandon. But it was the piece the sat in the center of the puzzle, the one all the others connected to and everything settled in place around the one term.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For maximum effect and to absolutely ruin the song for you, read this chapter with O Holy Night playing on loop.

**Chapter Sixteen: Well-Done**

Will followed the car from a safe distance. There were no other cars to slip between them, no other travelers to distract him from the blue Honda, slanted lights glowing softly like a beacon in the night. It was a clear evening, the sky dark, stars swallowed by the overwhelming life of Baltimore- even at night. It was nothing like Wolf Trap, where the sky possessed a glow of its own instead of borrowing the illuminated lights of the city. The stars bright, clear enough that he could find the constellations with ease. The three tightly pinched cluster of Orion’s belt, the bowing head of Ursa Major.

On some nights, when the weather was just so and the earth sat at just the right angle, he could see the other planets- almost indistinguishable from the stars themselves. The entire universe unfolding before him and he imagined to some it was disorienting. The feeling of nothingness in such vastness, so small in the presence of things bigger than he could comprehend. Smaller than the planets and pinpricks of stars, nothing more than the culmination of nitrogen and calcium and interplanetary dust. Stars were even extraordinary when they died, a universe-shattering implosion that made it's grave a collapsed hole of gravity that consumed any and all light.

Humans fizzled, faded away with death. A bleak and trudging thing, bringing with it memories of antiseptic and beeping machines, wires that looked like veins and rattling breath through weakened lungs.

There were little stars to be seen now, despite the clear sky, dying or otherwise. The refracted lights on the snow chased them away, and Will turned his gaze from the too absent sky to the car before him, brow knitting as recognition dawned on him.

They were headed to the bus station.

It was a path he had taken many times, sitting beside Lecter as violins and pianos snaked through the speaker. But the car did not turn into the station; instead, it continued forward and turned- a quarter mile down from the building- into the storage yard.

Will didn’t follow it, letting himself pass and driving ahead. He drove in a circle, cutting through several streets until he found himself once more approaching the station. He turned into that instead, parking at the edge of the lot where the overhead lamps did not reach and he was encased in shadows.

He turned the car off, sitting in the residual heat for a moment as he gripped the steering wheel, pondering his next moves. It wasn’t Lecter’s car- if he followed it, it was very likely he would be following a guest of his- though the idea of Lecter entertaining guests that did not leave until that odd, transitional time of light soured in his stomach.

If it wasn’t Lecter, and he was discovered, all of his efforts would be for naught. Exposing himself for an impostor was hardly ideal, but it was the only notable thing he’d seen in all his sleepless nights of watching.

Desperation was what ultimately made him step from the truck, tugging his hat further down his head so his ears were cased in warmth, pulling the collar of his jacket up high. It wasn’t a far walk from the municipal lot to the storage lot, but the soft snow made each step sluggish, wading at a slow and ambling gait. It crunched, compacting beneath his steps and at least it wasn’t the thick sort, a crisp shell of ice encasing the earth that crackled noisily beneath him.

His breath puffed before him, wisps of air between chapped lips and his teeth chattered noisily, jaw straining with the effort to still them. As if that alone would give him away, a stereo connected to all the small noises he made that would otherwise go unnoticed making them boom. A concerto of anxiety. The thud of his heart, the drum of his quickening pulse. Teeth chattering, lungs rasping with the chill that made each breath feel like a knife.

He crouched below the first bus he came to, darkened and stationary like sleeping beasts. He made his way through the lot in such a manner, knees aching and tight from the cold but refusing to stand to his fall height- finding comfort in the blockade. He found the Honda at the edge of the lot- well obscured from the building and the street and the municipal parking Will had crept from. The trunk was popped, and it sat before a bus, the collapsing door pulled aside, and the entrance a darkened mouth.

The windows were tinted- and without the light of day, it was hard to see within the windows, as if only shadows existed within the large vehicle. Will frowned, resting a knee into the ground even as the snow dampened his jeans and chilled his skin.

He sat in such a position, minutes slipping tortuously slow as if in funeral march before something moved in the shadows. He perked, spine straightening in surprise when Lecter himself stepped out from the bus.

He was holding a large suitcase- an expensive, leather looking thing. So different from the canvas one Will himself owned yet never used, rolling wheels affixed to the bottom and a handle that pulled out. The one Lecter had was a more traditional design- wide with a hinge opening, more like a traveling trunk than a suitcase.

But stranger than that was his outfit, glossy even in the low light of the storage lot. It took several seconds for his brain to piece together what his eyes were seeing. It was a plastic suit- like a raincoat, but full-body, legs sheathed in crinkling plastic. Clear, revealing the clothes beneath. Plain black trousers and his winter coat, hands shielded in the same leather gloves he wore while driving.

It was a peculiar outfit, and something like dread pooled in his stomach. It was the sort of clinical and clean outfit one wore in preparation of a mess. He reached for his phone, cold and fumbling hands finding it with more difficulty than he cared for, and he ripped a glove off his hand with his teeth so the touch screen responded when he slid the camera icon forward.

By the time he focused the camera of his phone and ensured the flash was off, Lecter had set the suitcase within the trunk and pulled out another identical one. His shoulder dropped with the weight of it- this one was full, while the other was empty, and disappeared back within the bus.

Will photographed it all, the few seconds of movement captured in dozens of photos, snapshots that changed incrementally. As if having as many photos as possible was somehow more valid than one.

As if each photo promised certainty, a guarantee that nothing was wrong with Will because he was right and _something was wrong with Lecter._ He could collect them, pieces of his sanity.

He let his hand fall to his side, phone clasped in an iron grasp as he waited for more movement to come. He should have been cold- hand bare around his phone, knee damp and pressed into the snow. But he was protected from it, the chill unable to permeate the anxiety that made his muscles spasm, constrict and contract like the ticking of a clock. His mind did not care about his body, too distracted by all the things unfurling before him. Like the rising action of a film or book, clues of a puzzle gathering together for the reveal of the climax.

_Lecter drove a car he did not own- at least not in his name with his correct address- to an empty bus lot._

_Lecter was wearing a suit designed to keep his clothes beneath pristine. A design that worked both ways, any lint or loose thread kept within the confines of the suit._

_Lecter was bringing full suitcases into a bus and leaving with empty ones._

What was he leaving behind?

Will watched the scene play out before him, snapping more and more photos each trip Lecter took from the bus to the car. He returned the suitcase- _empty_ \- to the trunk, snapping it closed and walking around to the backseat. He pulled out another suitcase _\- full_ \- and disappeared into the bus. When he returned, the suitcase _empty_ and his shoulders even, he settled it once more into his backseat, closing the door and standing straight in a slow, languishing stretch of his spine. His head swiveled on his neck, and Will inhaled a painful, frozen breath at the realization he was _looking around_.

_Lecter was looking for witnesses._

He twisted in his crouched position, back pressing against the cold frame of the bus and skewed his eyes shut. A childish act, a layover from when he was young and thought closing his eyes was enough for the monsters beneath his bed to pass over him. He remained in that way regardless, feeling the tremor of his erratic heart beneath his ribs, swallowing thickly at the sound of an engine turning over, wheels rolling over snow.

He remained in that way, not moving in case Lecter returned. His mind turning and coiling and screaming with the things he had seen. His breathing turned shallow and quick with the realization that he had witnessed a crime. Links forming from all the things he knew about Lecter, facts and statements regurgitated from a congested mind in such quick succession that each thought was not complete before giving way to the next. Clipped, monosyllabic adjectives and nouns that stitched together the man forming in his head.

_Doctor. Image. Cook. Observer. Hands. The hands of a surgeon. Knives and scalpels and sharp things. Order. Cleanliness. Touch._

_He is hiding something._

_He framed Matthew._

_Isolating Will. Weaponizing his illness._

_He wanted Will to kill._

He craved and enjoyed and delighted in Will’s violence because it mirrored his own, _knives and scalpels and hands and sharp things and keeping his suit clean and-_

Will gasped, chest rising and falling in shuddering breaths that made his whole body convulse, shoulders rise and fall and his eyes blinked open into the night. Into the graveyard of darkened buses and the sickening understanding that it was not just a graveyard for buses but in the literal sense.

Lecter came with _full_ suitcases and left with _empty_ ones.

He peered his head around the corner of the bus, glancing at the one Lecter had moved in and out of what felt like an eternity ago. He swallowed and his lips pulled into a grimace, knowing without needing to see it that he was staring at a grave. That the weight of those full suitcase was sitting in pieces on the bus, the door still ripped open like the hungry maw of a sleeping beast.

_Hannibal Lecter killed someone_.

It was a certainty. The lines of the letters concise and clear, conviction wrought within the curling vowels and pointed consonants. There was no doubt in his mind as he stood on numb legs, shoulders squaring as he took a step toward the bus. He paused, glancing around to make certain Lecter and the blue Honda were gone before moving forward. Dreamlike, almost. The cold numbing him so entirely he could confuse the ache and nothingness for floating, gliding towards the bus as though lured, unable to resist the siren’s song.

And there was a song- music slowly beckoning him forward. Small and tinny, notes rising and falling from the opened door of the bus. It grew louder with each step, the melody tugging at his brain and flourishing in recognition.

‘ _O holy night, the stars are brightly shining; it is the night of our dear Savior’s birth’_

The deep baritone of the Christmas carol resonated, like a plucked string from a cello that held and shook with the note. A song that even someone as bitter and glum as Will associated with a quiet joy. Memories from childhood before his wonder and belief were made dull by life. A song he associated with a time of year he met with excitement, whimsical delight at magic- before he became too keen to the sleight of hand truly responsible for that magic. It was nostalgic, tinged with the sort of sorrow that seeped into those memories like teeth.

‘ _Long lay the world in sin and error pining, Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.’_

He hesitated at the steps, glancing down to his boots and behind him, the trail of boot prints marking his path. He slipped his shoes off, socks quickly becoming sodden from the snow. He reached a hand up to his hat, ensuring all of his curls were tucked away before stepping up, a gloved hand finding the handrail.

‘ _A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new glorious morn.’_

He came to the aisle that ran down the bus, meeting darkness and shadows. He pulled his phone up, flicking the flashlight with a quick tap and holding it before him, a golden beam illuminating the cavern of the bus. Settling on the seats and the eyes-

His phone clattered as it dropped to the floor, a surprised shout pulled from his lips as he stumbled, back hitting the dashboard and he fell to the ground.

‘ _Fall on your knees oh, hear the angel voices.’_

He hissed in pain as his head smacked against the door opening mechanism, the long and tapered gear protruding from the dash. Stars burst, fireworks igniting in the blackness before him and he thought once more of dying stars erupting and turning into black holes that consumed all light.

‘ _O night divine, O night when Christ was born.’_

His heart sat in his throat, tendons strained around the bulbous swell and he gritted his teeth, swallowing it back down as he reached for his phone. The flashlight was still on, snuffed out momentarily when it fell with the screen facing upward, and he swung the light up in an arch like a spotlight on a stage, curtains pulled back.

‘ _O night divine, O night...O night divine.’_

He made a noise he couldn’t define- a cross between a shudder and a gasp, not quite a yelp but tinging on something hysteric. The light settled on a figure kneeling in the center of the aisle, held at a prone angle. Knees bent but hips raised, tilting forward slightly at the waist. The hands were spread outward as if awaiting an embrace, head raised, chin pointing upward and to the left.

‘ _Fall on your knees oh, Hear the angel voices.’_

Glassy eyes glanced at nothing, white lips parted as if frozen in reverent prayer. Something loomed behind the figure- something stretching outward as though angel wings but they were wet and pink, hooks pinching them, and keeping them aloft. Strings- thin, piano or fishing wire- were suspended from the curved ceiling of the bus, holding the limbs and the body in such supplication. Dried blood traced down the slope of the face from where barbed wire cut into the white flesh of the forehead. _A crown of thorns._

Sprigs of holly were nestled in blond curls, and a white cloth pinched at the shoulders and draped downward, offering some modesty as though doing the man a favor in death.

‘ _O night divine, O night...O night divine.’_

The music thinned, receded as if slipping from reality. There was a moment of silence, a reprieve from the swell of the chorus and ringing sopranos. A moment filled only with Will’s huffing breaths, whimpers slipping between his lips before he could stop them.

  
And then the song began again, Will startling and turning to find the small, battery-operated boombox on the driver's seat. The world felt distorted, reality tapering with indefinable edges. Like the first few moments upon waking when he was sleepwalking, when he was unsure if he was still sleeping or if the cold earth beneath his feet was real or just another fabrication of his vivid imagination.

‘ _Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.’_

It felt like swimming.

Like intoxication. His movements were slurred and blurry as he turned back to the figure- the corpse, held aloft like a puppet. The _lungs_ pulled out and spread in some cruel facsimile of angel’s wings, a phantom seraph carved out of what once had been a living, breathing man.

His stomach contorted, and he gritted against the bile that rose in his throat, swallowing it back down so his esophagus burned.

He had been expecting to find a body.

It was why he took off his shoes and tucked away his hair, not wanting to leave any trace of himself behind for fear of contaminating the crime scene.

He wasn’t prepared for _this_.

For the display made of flesh and bones, arranged at the altar of a god he was only beginning to understand. For the music which felt so much like blasphemy, a mockery of God and his angels and his son who assumed the sins of all in exchange for salvation. All of it culminating into this, the greatest of sins. The original sin, the originator of evil and violence and cruelty. Murder which left the angels aghast and God righteous with wrath.

It was perverse and repulsive.

‘ _Long lay the world in sin and error pining, Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.’_

It was repulsive, and yet Will couldn’t stop himself from standing, watching in a detached way as he took a tentative step closer. He peered around the wire, angling his phone to the back of the man-made angel, lungs pulled forward in crude wings. The back was carved out, leaving a hollowness on either side of the spine, ribs gone and-

He pulled back quickly, eyes pinching closed. But the image remained, painted on the back of his eyelids. The bloodied strip of skin along the spine, the vastness between the spine and sides. A hollow angel, like the sort meant to rest upon the top of a Christmas tree and Will once more had to swallow his sick.

‘ _A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new glorious morn.’_

Perverse and repulsive and…

_Poetic_.

He admonished himself the moment the word fluttered to his grasp, knowing that there was nothing poetic or beautiful or romantic about murder. _Torture_. The artwork made real was an homage to twisted faith, and Will was not meant to consider it as such.

‘ _Fall on your knees oh, hear the angel voices.’_

He should call someone, he realized. The police. He had photographs- dark and fuzzy from where he zoomed in and the image degraded with each pinch of his fingers. But they were still photographs of Lecter in his suit and loading the suitcases- _full and empty-_ back and forth. Evidence.

The phone was in his hand, the dial screen pulled up when he stopped, blinking in understanding.

This was not the first time Lecter killed.

There was too much preparation. Too much ritual. A knowledge and ease that came with not just knowledge and research but experience. Will slowly pulled his head up, glancing at the scene. The tableau and something itched in the furthest point of his memory. Something familiar about it all even though he had never seen anything like it before.

The angel poised before him, a peeling supplicant with arms open and awaiting death, head tilted towards the heavens. There was a reverence in it- not the forced reverence cast upon the dead man as he was pulled into a role suspended on wires. But Lecter arranged him with reverence, an exaltation of his own.

Lecter made him an angel, gifted him salvation even as he took away his life. The scene was theatrical, and Will thought of the sketchbook he sat with when the rest of the world tucked away. Of the ornaments decorating his home and the oil painting of Leda and the Swan. He was reverent of torture, saw beauty in the contorted limbs and mouths wrenched open in anguished cries. Blood and mottled bruises were brushstrokes on a canvas, an elegance to the arch of the spine as it snapped and the slice of a blade through flesh. Skin flayed and pulled back to reveal even more beauty. Ivory bones and soft organs, pink and pulsing.

Because they would be alive when he killed them. Dying slowly, awareness bleeding from them with each invasive dig of his hands into their chest.

He thought of Gideon, elbow-deep in the split skin of Chilton’s abdomen, flesh and muscle pulled back with clamps. But where Gideon stumbled to complete the task- pulling organs out but only just enough, leaving behind the ones that mattered, that kept Chilton alive and grasping for each life-saving breath- Lecter committed.

The man before him was a hollow shell, back ribs cut and revealing the empty cavern of his chest. All the other organs were gone, save for the fluttering wings of his lungs and Will had been able to see the underside curve of his ribs beneath the pectoral muscles when he peered around the opposite side.

It felt significant. Pointed in a way he could not discern. Lecter was a killer, an experienced one. He enjoyed the suffering of his victims, their cries for mercy, and sobs of pain as soothing and lovely as the symphonies that spilled through his record player. Drinking their fear like decadent wine. He mutilated them, delighted in the mutilation.

Matthew admired the mutilators, Will thought, recalling the mugshots of serial killers laying around Matthew’s room. The books cluttering his shelf. He didn’t have the patience for it himself, but he admired the serial killers who did.

And the term fit Lecter. _Serial killer._

It wasn’t what he expected to find and his breath was still strangled from him with the anxiety that spilled adrenaline with reckless abandon. But it was the piece the sat in the center of the puzzle, the one all the others connected to and everything settled in place around the one term.

Matthew admired the mutilators.

And he was drawn to Lecter.

Because he was a mutilator and a serial killer and he turned his kills into works of art, cracked ribs and splitting skin like the marble statues of a time long passed. Will inhaled a sharp breath, finding the source of familiarity that tugged at him since discovering the scene.

Above all else, Matthew admired the Chesapeake Ripper. Because the Ripper hadn’t been caught- by design, of course. Far too controlled and methodical to leave evidence and unbidden Will thought of the plastic sheathing suit. Because the Ripper delighted in torture and his victims died when the pain became too great and the nerves split and the brain trembled- when too much blood slipped from their veins. Because the Ripper plucked their organs when the game came to a bitter end and he needed a trophy to remember the power he held over life and death and Will thought of the hollowed-out chest. The ivory underside of ribs and the lungs pulled outward from the carved flesh around the spine.

His eyes pinched closed, and he grimaced, lips trembling into a smile. A twitching, hysterical smile.

Lecter wasn’t just a killer.

He was the Chesapeake Ripper.

Laughter, bubbling, and twisting through a constricted throat fell from between his lips before turning to a sob. The hand not holding his phone settled over his mouth, muffling the sounds. This was not the stability he thought he would glean from the truth. If anything, it felt as if he sunk deeper into madness. It was absurd.

He was sent to Doctor Lecter because he fantasized about torture and killing and all the while, Lecter was living out his vivid desires. Not feeding on them vicariously as he thought, but delighting in the joy of a like mind. A hawk recognizing another hawk.

But he wasn’t a hawk. He was an eagle. And eagles eat hawks.

Another laugh bubbled through his lips, a gurgling sound. Lecter never intended to help him. He was playing God, trying to create Will in his image only to discard him when the fun had run its course.

He turned his back on the angel, trembling hands pulling the phone and flicking through his contacts, the haunting melody muffling him and his thoughts.

‘ _Fall on your knees oh, hear the angel voices.’_

He found the contact, clicking the name and then the phone icon, swallowing thickly as he brought the phone to his ear, preparing what to say. He programmed Doctor Bloom’s number into his phone, though he never called it. Doing so felt like a burden and even now- ludicrously, as he stood before the mutilated corpse her friend Doctor Lecter had just arranged- he still felt like him calling her was bothersome even though he knew she worked with the FBI. As though the reality hadn’t fully settled.

The reality that Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper.

A brutal serial killer who left no evidence, arising once every other year to shatter the security of the community.

The phone rung in his ear, a soft buzz cutting through the Christmas music enveloping him, an endless loop of the carol. He blinked, his shallows breaths evening out. Something like resolve settling in his head at the words.

_Left no evidence._

He was a ghost. Smoke.

He existed in the world only as he wanted to. The only evidence that would tie him to this moment were the photos on Will’s phone. Because he didn’t leave evidence.

He knew how to not get caught.

He turned off the phone before he fully understood what he was doing, eyes flicking once more over the scene. The carol nestling into the folds of his brain like a disease. Like maggots and rot, corrupting the joyful and holy praise.

‘ _O night divine, O night...O night divine.’_

Exhaling, his lungs expanded and unfurled in slow increments, and he turned and walked down the steps. Reaching a frozen hand down, he grabbed his shoes in his hands, stepping onto the snow. His feet throbbed beneath the numbing skin, but he ignored the pain, walking backward through the snow. He followed the path he took, one foot swooping across his shoe prints in an oscillating arc. He unsettled the snow, disrupted the blanket of it, and clearing away the trail he made.

The music faded as he continued through the lot, breath crystallizing in the air before him, his huffs punctuating the rising crescendo of the song.

‘ _Fall to your knees oh, hear the angel voices.’_

He wondered if it was for him, as he slipped past the building and returned to the municipal lot. If the angel settled in the bus of the same station he and Lecter met at so often was meant for him. A message, perhaps. The beginning of a journey he saw himself guiding Will through, just as he guided the man from life to death- a living Charon, the ferryman of the dead. If he thought Will would find his own salvation in the blood and violence he fought against, turning to them the way the angel turned to heaven, arms waiting in a welcoming embrace.

He was too far to hear the music, but it played in his mind. A phantom melody, haunting him as he opened the truck and slid back inside, shoes tossed to the passenger seat.

‘ _O night divine, O night when Christ was born.’_

His hands gripped the steering wheel, staring through the windshield, unseeing.

Or, at least, unseeing what was before him. His mind played for him a film, composed of memories he had seen and things that did not exist.

Did not exist _yet_.

Something he could will into existence.

He swallowed thickly, chin lowering to his chest. Lecter knew how to not get caught. And the Chesapeake Ripper killed in threes. Like a bad omen or misfortune, he struck in intervals of three. It made him think of superstitions, his grandmother’s rituals that she treated like a prayer to keep the devil from her heels.

This was one.

There would be two more.

He intended for one of them to be his.

He was halfway home when his phone rang, eyes flicking down from the road to catch the caller identification. Doctor Bloom. His hand was surprisingly steady as he answered the call, resting the device against his ear.

He swallowed, trying to make his voice thick with tears when he spoke. Trying to sound confused and distraught. “Hello?”

“ _Will?”_ her voice came through the speaker, warm and crinkled with sleep. Like soft blankets and the crackle of burning wood in a fireplace. _“I’m sorry, I was sleeping when you called. Is everything okay?”_

Crying came to him easily; his empathy disorder gave him great command of emotions. Not his own, though- held hostage by the whims of others. But he could summon emotions to him at will, drawing from his well. Thinking of moments in his life and letting his mirrors reflect the memories in his eyes and voice. Tears were already forming on his lash line as he said, “I’m...I’m sorry. I forgot...” He swallowed thickly, voice wrought with his manufactured tears.

“ _Forgot what?”_ she prompted.

He licked his lips. “I forgot...you’re not my therapist anymore. I’ve been...I’ve been a little confused lately...and I was...I was sleepwalking. Sometimes it takes a moment for...for things to settle,” he explained, trying to sound meandering. Rambling through his stream of consciousness.

There was a pause before she spoke next, sounding far more alert than she had before. _“What’s going on, Will? Do you want me to call Doctor Lecter? Are you safe?”_

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, lips warbling. Tears were slipping down his face, blurring his vision as he blinked them away. “I woke up...I’m home...I got an MRI the other day and I’m fine. I’m sorry, I hung up when I remembered. I just forgot is all.” He swallowed, letting a sob choke his words as he added, “Please don’t tell Doctor Lecter.”

“ _I won’t,”_ she said, softly. Kindly. And she wouldn’t, he knew. She wasn’t like Chilton. She valued his trust, treated it like the gift it was. _“I’m going to call your dad though. Later today, just so I know he’s looking out for you. Okay?”_

“Okay,” he parroted, tapering the end so it inflected. Mirroring her syntax. “I’m...you should go back to bed. I’m fine now, really. I’m going to try to get more sleep.”

“ _You can always call me, Will. Even if I’m not your therapist anymore, I’d rather you call me than no one else, okay?”_

“Okay.”

Realizing that she had gotten him to speak as much he was going to, she sighed, the sound a bluster of crackling air in his ear. _“Feel better, Will. And don’t be afraid to reach out to Doctor Lecter. He wants to help you, you just have to ask.”_

It was a herculean effort to keep the snort from his voice, but he managed, a small chuckle huffing out instead. He turned the sound into a sigh. “I know. Don’t worry. I’m going to. Ask him for help, I mean,” he said.

It was a promise.

They said their goodbyes, and Will let his phone fall into his lap, tears drying to his face. Itchy against chilled flesh. He pulled into the garage an hour before sunrise, making certain to park and angle the truck exactly as he had found it. He didn’t bother closing the garage door, knowing his dad would be satisfied with the excuse that he had opened it in a sleepwalking state. He opened the door, quieting the dogs easily with handfuls of treats pulled from his pocket and was able to sneak in the house with little noise.

When he came to his room, he pulled a pill from his dwindling stockpile, dry swallowing it and gritting at the bitter taste. There would be no more following Doctor Lecter, no more need for the pills. One could only hunt for so long, lurking in the shadows.

Eventually, they would have to strike.

He settled into his bed, still fully dressed and only half thawed. He fell asleep within moments, his dreams plagued with carols and angels with bloody wings, snow stained red with wine and blood. Eagles and hawks picking at mutilated corpses, beaks pinching and tearing away the fetid flesh until nothing was left but bones and a crown of thorns and the ghostly melody of yuletide joy turned sour.

~x~

Only eight hours passed before Hannibal found himself in the bus yard once more, the weariness he felt when his phone pulled him from sleep forgotten as he stepped onto the familiar lot. Police tape blockaded it, police cars and crime scene unit vans cluttering the area. He feigned confusion as he twisted about, letting a look of relief wash over his features when he caught sight of Alana and Jack Crawford.

“Alana,” he said in greeting, nodding at his colleague and the FBI agent in turn. “Jack.”

“Thank you for coming, Doctor Lecter. We could use all hands on this one,” Jack said, his voice gruff and hoarse, as though he spent the majority of his morning yelling his throat raw.

He nodded, sighing softly. “You believe it’s the Ripper?”

Jack sputtered, making an indistinguishable noise and muttering something beneath his breath as he turned and walked away, yelling at two crime scene techs who startled, plastic suits crinkling.

Alana looked apologetic. “He’s in a mood. Between the Minnesota Shrike case going to the cold case unit and the Ripper starting another cycle, he’s been biting heads off left and right,” she explained, folding her arms over her chest. “It has all the Ripper’s signatures. If you want to...check it out.” She grimaced, turning away from him to avert the disgust dulling the light in her eyes. She never did appreciate the works of art he made, flesh and blood his medium of choice. They did not share an eye for this beauty, the arching columns of crushed throats, normally delicate limbs made into stone from rigor mortis. Turning into statues upon death.

Injecting elegance into their inelegant lives, he made beauty where there was once only ugliness.

“In there?” he asked, nodding his head in direction of the bus at the center of the chaos.

She nodded, following beside him. “The Ripper is getting into the spirit of the holidays,” she said, bitterness lacing her words. “Prepare yourself.”

The bus was cramped when he entered, the seats removed to allow more space for the techs to move around, careful to avoid the wires suspending his angel in the canted position- resting on his knees but rising upwards, arms extending outwards. Dried blood painted the slope of his face from where the sharp barbs had pierced his flesh, highlighting the soft curves of his brow and cheekbone. Holly wound within the wire, bright green against the pale blond locks. Lungs pulled up and away through the carved hollowness of his back, where his ribs had once been. He had generously given his angel wings, suspending him mid ascension in the basement of his own home. He preferred to do the bulk of his work on sight, letting the full scene come to life before death made it still. But there were so many pieces he wished to take, it was more convenient to do so in his own home. To ensure freshness and cleanliness.

He inhaled a sharp breath, glancing away with a blink before swallowing as if to steel his nerves, turning back once more. “The Ripper made an angel.”

“Wait, you need the full effect,” came a feminine voice, a woman rising from where she crouched beside an evidence collection kit- useless, no doubt- and reached a gloved hand out to the boombox he left.

The music began, and he decided he liked the woman- dark hair pulled back in loose curls, thin lips pinched in a stern line, and soft dark eyes behind the sleek goggles. She would appreciate the beauty more than Alana, understand that the music was just as much a part of the scene as the draping sheet and pink and blood-covered wings. It swelled around him, the deep voice resonating within him, plucking at his senses like fingers pulling on the strings of an instrument.

“ _O Holy Night._ A classic,” he mused, twisting around to examine his work with new eyes. “What can this tell us about our killer?”

“He has bad taste in music?” a tech said, peering around the angel with a brow raised.

Another tech sneered, barely sparing him a glance. “Not a fan of Christmas songs?”

“Not when they get me called in on my day off and elbow deep in some guy’s torso.”

Hannibal’s lips skewed at the unprofessional decorum of the two men, turning his focus back to the woman, her own face twisted in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. The way one might regard their siblings. “He took all of them this time,” she said, glancing between Hannibal and Alana. “Everything except the lungs, obviously. I’m Beverly, by the way. You’re Jack’s new consult?”

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he greeted, offering a hand which she shook firmly, lips twitching into a small smile.

“That’s unusual, even for the Ripper,” Alana said, folding her hands in front of her. “Why would he take so many?”

_Liver pate smeared on crostini. Roasted heart with rosemary and fried sage. Kidney stewed in Merlot and served with cranberry sauce fresh with blood orange._

And of course, Alana’s favorite. _Braised short ribs._

“Perhaps his trophy collection was less practical than it was meaningful this time,” he said, ducking beneath the wires to glance at the carved back, a window into the hollow torso. He could imagine the lungs fluttering, swelling with breath the way they had before his angel stilled in death. As if he was preparing to take flight. “A hollow angel. The inside empty, a picture negative to the facade that the world sees.”

“He took the tongue, too,” Beverly added, extending two fingers sheathed in blue latex and drawing attention to the smattering of bruises lining the jaw and just below the chin. “When he was still alive. Dislocated the jaw to get deep enough. That mean something? With the song, I mean.”

_Fall to your knees oh. Hear the angel voices._

Oh, he liked her very much, he decided, trying to think of a casual way to invite her to his upcoming dinner party at the end of the week. He could ask about her work, delighting in the way she gnashed the tools of her trade between unknowing teeth. Consuming her passion.

“He stole the angel’s voice. Silenced him,” he agreed after a considering roll of his head. Beverly could see the beauty in his work. Not in the way he saw it, but in a purely technical appreciation. Her mind was drawn to the sinews and the thin veins. Finding beauty in the deconstructed form. “I don’t suppose you’ve found any evidence?”

A groan was his answer, and he stamped down his smile when one of the techs- a bearded man- said, “Don’t tell Jack.”

“The security cameras to the lot disconnected after the first snowstorm, and they didn’t get around to fixing them yet,” Alana added, and Hannibal hummed at the information. It was fortuitous, the storm aiding his mechanisms and hiding his careful preparations one evening long after he dropped Will off at the very station. “Jack screamed at some poor worker for ten minutes before we managed to pull him away. He knows this kill means there will be two more and he intends to stop it.”

_Unlikely,_ Hannibal thought, thinking to the guest currently occupying his basement. He had taken the week off; only a handful of his patients had anticipated seeing him the week of Christmas, and they were all understanding when he explained his desire to celebrate the holidays outside of his office. His persona as the Ripper- one of his more favored personas- was an exhaustive one. Three kills in quick succession, followed by hosting a large event, was an effort that tested even his endurance. He enjoyed the challenge, of course. Thrilled in the hunt and luxuriated in the kills.

But he, despite what Jack Crawford might believe, was merely human. Prone to the throes and demands of his body’s need for sleep. The weeks of preparation allowed for an ease, an efficiency to his activities that he was very thankful for now that he was called upon to consult. He enjoyed hearing the profile, the thoughts spoken aloud as the team tried to decipher the puzzle that was the Ripper. Even if most of it was wrong, misinterpretations of his work.

He thought once more of the desire to be seen, wholly, and with acceptance. He thought of Matthew and Will and the desperation they all shared for something so basic for others yet was denied to them. Loneliness was a dull ache, one he had grown accustomed to.

He left after an hour of fieldwork, walking Alana to her car as she shared her own theories. Half-truths, unable to see what was placed before her because the language was all wrong. “I know it’s a weird hill to die on, but it’s especially inconsiderate of the Ripper to do all this around the holidays,” she said, humor tinging the words as she sought catharsis in the joke.

“It’s undeniably a lovely aesthetic,” he intoned, steps slowing as he approached her car and she began searching for her keys. “And the motifs lend themselves to his creations. Perverting the adored and classical ideals of the holidays for his visions. He’s celebrating.”

She crinkled her nose. “I’m not sure I’d like to find out the sort of things the Ripper enjoys celebrating,” she mused, pulling the keys from her bag noisily, clutching them in her gloved hand. “Thank you for coming out, Hannibal. I’m sorry you were dragged into all this but it’s at least...nice to have you here. You’re a good neutral force against Jack, and I could really use that.”

Her eyes danced about his face, pulling from his gaze to settle on his lips before averting, glancing at the scene stretched before them. The CSU vans packing up, the bright yellow tape that shifted and pulled against the blustery wind. She was going to kiss him only to change her mind, realizing how tasteless it would be. Sharing something intimate on the hallowed ground of a crime scene steps away from the grave of a hollowed-out angel.

Her cheeks were pink, from the cold and sudden rush of embarrassment.

“I think you could use a bit of a respite from all this. Would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow evening?” he asked, inclining his head so he could lower his voice against the outside world.

Her eyes found his own once more, breaking away for only a moment to glance at his lips. She swallowed, nodding in slow and measured movements. “That sounds wonderful.”

He smiled, opening the car door for her and closing it once she was settled, waving his goodbye before departing to his own vehicle. Snow crunched beneath his steps, renewed vigor snapping his muscles despite the few hours sleep he managed to grasp before his phone rang.

He would spend the night with Alana, plying her with wine and pleasure until she was pliant and soft in his bed. He would build his next tableau then, slinking back into bed beside her as if he never left. It was always nice, having an alibi even if he didn’t think he might need it. Layers upon layers, building upon his carefully constructed disguise.

There would be one more kill to follow, and before long the very same team who failed to solve the murders would be eating those they were meant to bring justice to, mourning their failure to catch the Ripper while he celebrated and reveled in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet. But I like the way it turned out. 
> 
> Next up; The one from the story's summary. You know the one. :)


	18. Macerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know what you are, and I have proof,” Will said, swallowing thickly at something lodged in his throat. Fear, most likely. But perhaps something else. Perhaps the delightful feeling of his heart in his throat and the taste of power making saliva pool behind his teeth. “I’ve been following you. And I’ve got pictures.”
> 
> “I’m afraid I’m not certain what you’re referring to, though it is highly inappropriate for you to be stalking your psychiatrist,” Hannibal said, his words cool as he brushed a hand aside to straighten his files, concealing the brush of his fingers to a scalpel.
> 
> “Yes, you do. But I’m not going to turn you in. I’m telling you this so you’ll help me. I have someone I want you to kill.” His hands slid over his desk, away from the scalpel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s song recommendation is Head Like A Hole by Nine Inch Nails.

**Chapter Seventeen: Macerate**

Hannibal awoke suddenly, blinking in the darkness of his bedroom. Vision shifting and settling, his senses coming to him in increments. Like a stretch of the spine, each knob popping into place. He was aware of the softness of his pillow, the cool silk beneath his head. Aware of the flurry of snow outside his window, the night sky gray and shrouded with clouds, snow climbing up along the windowpane.

Aware of the ringing of his phone, buzzing noisily as it vibrated on his bedside table, clattering against the surface. He rose his head, blinking at the face of his clock until it steadied enough to read. Four eleven in the morning.

He reached a hand out, pulling his phone from the charging chord and glancing at the identification. Awareness struck him fully than at the name, emblazoned against the blue light of the screen. _Will Graham._

His curiosity piqued, and he slid to answer, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Will?” he asked, voice gruff and warm with sleep. “Is everything alright?”

His question was met with sobs, great heaving cries that shuddered against the speaker and made him pull the phone away, the air crackling too close to his ears. His voice was thick with tears and mucus when he finally spoke, heaving the words as if they were ripped straight from his chest and shattered his bones. _“_ _I messed up,”_ he began, words straining around a constricted throat. _“_ _I...I didn’t know what to do_ _so I called you_ _...I need your help.”_

Hannibal sat up, lips parting as he held the phone closer to him. His voice was thready, thin as he asked, “What did you do, Will?”

There was a harsh swallow on the other end of the phone, followed by a long and pitched whimper. _“I was sleepwalking...I didn’t mean to do it,”_ he said, a hollow whisper.

Hannibal threw his legs over the side of the bed, tossing the blanket from him as he licked his lips in anticipation. Will did it, then. Clutched the temptation Hannibal dangled above him, a temptation he could no longer deny himself. He tried to envision him, blood saturating his curls so they clung to his head, dampening his shirt so it held against the contours of his chest. He wished to see him, covered in blood that was not his own. Trembling as adrenaline was wrung from his glands and coursed through him.

“What did you do, Will?” he asked, not bothering to conceal the husk in his voice. It was a game between them, an understanding that both parties claimed ignorance too. Hannibal would allow himself to fall for Will’s manipulations, offer his testimony that he was _ill,_ and didn’t know any better. And Will would accept the help. He thought back to their dinner a few weeks ago, Will’s lips made shiny with the wine he consumed with gluttonous zeal. Loosened by the wine. _Someone might think_ _you were encouraging me._

“ _I...I didn’t mean to,”_ he repeated, a steadiness to his voice behind the warbling of tears. _“I need your help._ _I need-”_ he paused, swallowing thickly. _“I need you. Please.”_

His spine stiffened, and he said, “Will? Where are you? Are you home?” He was standing before the words left his mouth, untying the waistband to his pajama bottoms and slipping them down his hips as he reached for a clean pair of slacks.

“ _No,”_ was the small answer, quiet over his waning tears.

“Do you need me to pick you up?” he asked, hoping the answer was yes. Hoping that he would find Will sitting huddled on the steps of Chilton’s home, blood smearing the places he held himself. That he could see it before the police would be called; before he would be shuffled behind the yellow police tape and denied the sight.

“ _No,”_ Will answered, swallowing as he added, “ _I’m...I’m almost at your office. Can you...can you meet me there? Please?”_ The voice thinned, tapered into a whine.

He lowered his head to his shoulder, phone pinched to his ear as he looped a belt through the trousers. “Almost there? Are you taking the bus?” he asked, wondering if any of them were even operating at this hour.

“ _No. I...I’m driving.”_

“You don’t have your license, Will,” he said- neutral, not an admonishment.

Will offered a hollow laugh, and he could picture him- clear as day. Lips gritted into a not-right smile ( _painful_ ) and blood staining the hands as he gripped the wheel of a stolen car. _“Does that matter at this point?”_

Lecter blinked. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. I’ll see you at my office then.”

Will did not respond, the phone cutting out and replaced by the blaring buzz of the dial tone. A dead line.

_~_ _x~_

The lights were on in Hannibal’s office by the time Will pulled to the curb, the only interior light on the otherwise quiet street of professional buildings. Snowflakes fluttered softly from the sky, catching and shimmering beneath the golden light of the streetlamps. They were affixed with wreaths and red ribbons, garnished for the holiday season. It was picturesque, the quaint sort of evening one expected when they thought of this time of year. The wealthy street decorated tastefully- not too garish, curated so that the street resembled less the real world and more the one that existed within the polished lens of a movie. The cheesy ones with bad acting and hamfisted dialogue that were such commonplace this time of year.

Once more, Will felt like he existed within a snowglobe, delicate glass encasing him from the world.

He sat in the car for a moment, the quiet thrum of the radio engulfing him. The drums were a steady beat that vibrated against the seat, and he chuckled softly at the absurdity of it. This moment he stood just outside the perimeter of, steeling his nerves before stepping through the veil. A point of no return.

He was about to confront Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper.

If he were a more discerning, judicial man he might have wondered how Lecter came to be what he was. If he, like Will, was plagued by the images his mind created, vivid fantasies that played unbidden before pinched eyelids. Maybe he had seen a therapist himself- a good one, who actually tried to help him before deciding he was beyond reproach. Or that torture and murder were simply more fun.

How similar were the two of them?

How different?

The superficial differences were obvious- jarringly so, in fact. The polished and extravagant exterior Lecter presented- bordering on foppish and certainly pretentious- was on a different spectrum entirely from Will’s unkempt appearance and second-hand clothes. The music coming through slotted speakers was- amusingly- so different from the refined classics and operas Lecter was taken with, and Will stifled an inappropriate chuckle. He wondered if Lecter even knew what the Nine Inch Nails were.

‘ _Head like a hole; black as your soul. I’d rather die than give you control.’_

He glanced towards the windows, the golden light softened by the blur of the color-blocked curtains. He was always setting scenes, Will realized. Tongue-in-cheek set designs for his game of play pretend. Carefully selected music, foods, and wines tailor-made to the role he decided to play that morning. Twisted bones and Leda and the Swan and a kitchen like a morgue.

Was he setting a scene now? Expecting Will to arrive, covered in blood, and awaiting his instruction? The promised help he gave over coy conversations and wine before bones and gods tricking young women in gilded frames?

What song had he chosen to set his scene with?

_Bow down before the one you serve; You’re gonna get what you deserve.’_

He inhaled, knuckles bracing on the steering wheel in a firm squeeze before sliding to his lap, fingers caressing the muzzle of the gun. It was warm from the heat radiating from him despite the winter chill pressing frost against the window.

‘ _God money’s not looking for the cure. God money’s not concerned with the sick among the pure. God money let’s go dancing on the backs of the bruised. God money’s not-’_

He turned the keys in the ignition, the engine sputtering down and the music coming to a clipped and abrupt end. It felt like a dream, stepping outside of the car and walking towards the familiar office.

Snow on the ground, snow in the air.

Gun in his hands.

Fingers caressed the rounded belly of the trigger guard, thumb clicking the safety off as he pulled the door open.

~x~

Hannibal had arrived at his office ten minutes after he hung up the phone, dressed simply in plain black trousers and a button-down. He set a fire, the heat and crackle of the flames a pleasant disruption in the still, cold office before settling in at his desk. It was always wise to be prepared, after all, and he unlocked the drawer that held his art supplies, setting the pencils out in their careful order- softest to sharpest. The scalpel came to rest beside them, a quick blade within his reach should he lose control of the moment.

Will would be in a fractured state when he arrived, euphoric from the high of his kill and the disbelief of what he had just done. Scared, possibly, of what he was capable of. Scared by the heady rush of power that came with holding someone’s life in your hands, like a bird with brittle bones that snapped so wonderfully in a closing fist.

Had it been so easy? As easy as killing a bird?

Or was it messy? A carnage as he lost control, his tenuous restraint snapping with the indulgence?

If he was smart and wanted the testimony Hannibal promised, it would be clean and quick. Something a person in a state of slumber could manage. No amount of professional testimony could save Will if he had become too vicious. Too feral.

But would a clean kill be as satisfying? Would it stave off his hunger or merely awaken his palette? An amuse-bouche that made anticipation build for the main course?

He was bracing himself for the day before him- escorting Will to the police station, endless phone calls, and reports to give. He would be the one to call Alana- to call William and tell him he had failed him and his son. That he tried his best but Will sought his help only when it was too late.

He wondered if he could push his chances, offer to identify the body. Frederick had no family in the area, and as a colleague working beside him on the same patient, he would consider it an act of closure. A moment to see the work of Will’s furtive hand before the medical examiner made cuts of their own, suturing the flesh and draining the blood. Piecing Frederick back together again so he would be presentable enough for a viewing. No doubt would the man want anything other than an open casket.

His day would not end until dinner with Alana, who would not cancel, of course. She would need him now more than ever. Distraught by the news and desperate for his reliable neutrality and assurance.

His thoughts came to an end when the door opened slowly, Will stepping inside. He was not covered in blood- his own or otherwise. His dull green coat was bundled tightly together, a knit cap lowered over his curls and his face flushed with the chill of winter.

“Will,” he said, standing to rise from his chair only to still, frozen in the crouching stand as he caught sight of the gun at Will’s side. He swallowed, forcing his gaze to retrain on Will’s eyes. “Will, I’m going to come around the desk and I’d like you to give me the gun, alright?”

He did not make it out from behind the desk before Will raised the gun, both hands clasping hold of it to keep his stance steady against any recoil. “I think I’d like to keep it, actually. If that’s okay with you, Doctor.”

Hannibal straightened his spine at the tone he used. Cool and measured, deeper than the typical pout that made each word a grumble or whine. He recognized danger when he saw it, recognized the glint in Will’s eyes and an understanding crept into him. The realization that he and Will had in fact been playing a game, but not the same one.

“Very well,” he said, slowly settling back into his seat. The scalpel sat unnoticed by Will for the moment, but the gesture to grab it from his desk would not be. There was another in his drawer, and he rested his palms on his thighs in the hopes that he could distract Will long enough for his search to not be seen.

Will huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Hands where I can see them, Doctor,” he ordered, giving Hannibal an expectant look.

His jaw clenched, and he rose his hands, settling them down on the surface of his desk. “Will, I believe you’re in a manic state-”

“Oh, I’ve never been in a clearer state of mind,” Will interrupted, stepping more fully into the room now, Hannibal following his movements with a watchful eye. “The scales have fallen from my eyes and I can finally see you for what you are.”

He didn’t dare glance at the scalpel, aware that any illusion of control he thought he had was ripped firmly from his grasp. The game they played was now firmly Will’s own, Hannibal nothing more than an unidentifiable piece on a square of a board he could not see for himself. It was...disorienting. It had been a long time since he felt powerless, held by the thumb of another without even understanding to what end. He flicked through his memories of the past few weeks, searching for the moment the balance of power shifted without his knowing. The moment Will went from being passive to active to…

Dominant, he realized, the rounded barrel of the gun glinting with the light thrown by the fire.

It shouldn’t have thrilled him as much as it did, a heady rush filling him. Will had a way of surprising him, an unpredictability to him that should upset his need for order and control but instead ignited a need for something else. Something he could not quite name but understood within the most ancient, carnal parts of his brain.

He risked a slow slide of his hand toward the scalpel, the motion unseen by Will as he swallowed, voice thick with growing arousal. “What do you think I am, Will?”

Curious. Curious for the cards Will held close to his chest. He was more perceptive than most, and Hannibal had allowed himself to indulge in coy words knowing Will would be too unstable to employ them against him. How much could he discover from that alone?

Did he truly see Hannibal for what he was, or see only what he thought he saw?

Will’s jaw twitched, one side of his mouth tugging upward. “I _know_ what you are,” he corrected slowly, harshly. “And I have proof,” he added, swallowing thickly at something his throat. Fear, most likely. Fear that comes with facing down a monster without any pretenses, nerves steeled and resolved settled. Fear of the hefty weight of the gun in his hand and the need for a weapon. But perhaps something else.

Perhaps the delightful feeling of his heart in his throat and the taste of power making saliva pool behind his teeth.

Hannibal slid his hand closer to the scalpel, the word like the bullet that sat loaded in the chamber. _Proof._ A damning word.

A word that would condemn one of them if Will was honest. If he truly saw Hannibal for what he was and had proof of it.

One of that would not be leaving this room alive, he realized, painfully aware of the slim finger resting on the trigger. “Proof of what, Will? Have you been hallucina-”

Will stamped closer to the desk, the gun coming to rest only inches away from Hannibal’s brow; his pupils were blown wide with adrenaline, swallowing the blue irises whole. “You know what I’m talking about. I’ve been following you. And I’ve got pictures.” When Hannibal did not respond, he licked his lips and added, “I was at the bus station. I saw your _work_.”

_And I’ve got pictures._

It would be a shame to have to kill him, especially with the exciting turn of events. Already, his vision of the day was changing. Calling the police to him, to the blood-stained office where he shot and killed his patient after wrestling the guns from his hand. Blood pooling on the rug, creeping onto the wooden floorboards and settling into the grooves between them. _He was violent. He attacked first._

_A danger to himself and others._

He had offered a gift-wrapped defense to Will, and instead, Will gave him one of his own. And he would be distraught, traumatized by the blood staining his hand and settling into the ridges of his skin. Traumatized by the knowledge that he had been forced to take such a young life.

But it would not be a surprise, and little thought would be given to Will Graham, an attempted murderer killed by the man he hunted. Just another sorrowful statistic, lost to his mental illness.

He imagined even William himself would apologize through wet, glassy eyes. Apologize that his dead son had spent his last moments trying to kill the only man who tried to help him.

Undeniably tragic, and Hannibal swallowed, stammered purposefully in the hopes the motion distracted from his hands creeping ever closer to the blade. “I’m afraid I’m not certain what you’re referring to, though it is highly inappropriate for you to be stalking your psychiatrist,” he said, words cool as he brushed a hand aside to straighten his files, concealing the brush of his fingers to the scalpel.

_So close._

“Yes, you do,” Will said through a snort. “But I’m not going to turn you in.”

His fingers stilled, and his gaze narrowed at the words.

He was having difficulty keeping up with the game Will was playing, and his blood was warm as it pulsed beneath his skin, heat pooling along his collar and coloring his chest. “But you have _proof,”_ he said, parroting the words with a slight, mocking lilt. “Is it your intention to blackmail me?”

It would be a disappointing end to the game. Juvenile, really. To hold so much power over Hannibal- the ability to convict him where others had failed because he had _proof_ \- and to use it for such unfulfilling purposes. Was it his wealth he wanted? Thinking Hannibal would let him live and pay him exorbitantly for the proof to remain hidden away?

No, surely that wasn’t it. Will had been smart enough to get _proof_. He would be smart enough to know Hannibal would never make an agreement that ended with both of them leaving the room alive.

“I’m telling you this so you’ll help me. I have someone I want you to kill,” Will said, licking his lips. Hannibal’s hands slid over his desk, away from the scalpel, intrigue flaring in his chest.

“Your intention then is to...use me as a hitman?” he asked, brows rising incredulously.

Will nodded. “You’re the Ripper,” he said, finally voicing the declaration he tiptoed around since entering the office. It was not a question. It was a statement. “You don’t leave evidence. You don’t get caught. And you kill in sounders of three.”

“Sounders?” he asked, knowing the term but never having heard it in reference to his kills. “As in a group of pigs?” He was amused, and Will’s lips pulled back in revulsion at the wanton display of delight.

“That’s how you see them, isn’t it? The people you kill?”

He did not answer, letting his lips curl into a small, barely visible smile. Will rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth as he said, “You have two more, then. I want one of them.”

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. It was certainly a more interesting bid than if Will was blackmailing him for something as banal as money. But it was still indignant. He was not a killer for hire. “No,” he said, enjoying the way Will’s face faltered, surprise pulling at his features and making him lower the gun minutely.

“No?” he repeated, brows disappearing into the curls that slipped from the brim of his cap. His face was red, sweat glistening on his skin. The fire was an oppressive heat and Will had not bothered to take off his winter outerwear.

“Kill them yourself if you want them dead,” he said simply, gesturing at the gun. “You came here prepared to kill me, why not meet the object of your violent desires with the same ardor? I am not a tool for you to use so the bitter taste of guilt doesn’t sour your tongue.”

His face twitched, movements swift and jerky as he leaned across the desk and swung the gun to the side in a swooping arc. Hannibal lurched, raised a hand that was quick but not quick enough, the metal shaft of the gun hitting him sharply across the temple.

It was a powerful strike, knocking him from his seat with a grunt so that he shuffled on the floor, blinking back the fireworks that crackled in his vision, a throbbing ache undulating across his skull. Boots appeared before him, and he pulled to his knees in a graceful move despite the swooning of his head with the motion as he glanced up at Will.

He was hysterical now, eyes wide and feral as he gestured with the gun, emphasizing each word as he said, “They’ll know it was me! That’s the whole point!”

Hannibal pressed a hand to his temple, fingers slick and warm. “You’ve threatened them before,” he said, adding, “It is not the guilt then you fear but the conviction.”

Will pursed his lips, eyes following Hannibal’s hand as he pulled it from his head, resting it on his thigh with the palm upturned so the blood didn’t stain his pants. Did he enjoy the sight of the blood trickling down Hannibal’s sharp and high cheekbones? Enjoy knowing he was the cause of it?

“I’d kill them myself if I’d get away with it,” he admitted, finally meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “But I can’t. I don’t know what to do. I’ll leave evidence behind and I’ll be the first person they suspect. They’ll know to look for me. And I don’t want to go to prison any more than you do.”

“Are you so certain I’ll go to prison, Will?” he countered, remaining on his knees even as he straightened his spine. “As you said, I know what to do. I’m larger than you. I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive. I can easily overpower you and kill you. You lured me here, Will. You brought a gun. You’ve threatened people before and have a history of violence. The reality is Will, people will _always_ believe me before they believe you.”

Will winced, a full-body flinch as he took an unsteady step back, face crumpling inward for a moment before straightening. Fighting back whatever tears Hannibal had almost pulled free at his unkind but true words. He took advantage of the break in his composure, slowly standing with his hands held outward to not startle the teen. “You can give me the proof you have, and I’ll even let you shoot me.”

Confusion settled on his face, brow knitting and eyes narrowing. _“What?”_

“I’ll tell you where,” Hannibal began, using his unbloodied hand and sliding it across his midsection, settling his finger against a point that would not be fatal. “You shoot me here, and that will be my reason for not calling the police right away. It will give you time to find and kill the person you really want to kill. I was supposed to meet some colleagues today at eight. When I don’t show up and can’t be reached, they’ll find me. That will give you a few hours before they start looking for you.” Will considered him- considered the deal, eyes fixing on the point of Hannibal’s finger, the tip disappearing into his soft abdomen. Slowly, he added, “You want to kill them, Will. It won’t be satisfying if I do it for you, even if it keeps you from imprisonment. Think about it- wouldn’t prison be worth it if it means you got to finally do what you’ve wanted to do since you were eleven years old?”

Not as if Will would make it that far. He just needed him to lower his defenses enough for Hannibal to gain the upper hand- the scalpel set on his desk, ripping the gun from his grasp. He watched as the idea settled into Will’s mind, eyes glazing with the thought of it. Sweat was slipping down his face in rivulets now, clinging to his upper lip.

But his eyes became sharp once more, clarity slipping into them and he huffed, tightening his hold of the gun as he aimed it once more on Hannibal. “You’ll kill me,” he whispered. “You don’t plan on letting me leave here alive.”

Hannibal said nothing.

It was the truth, after all, and it would be very unethical to lie to his patient. He was considering how quickly he could reach for his scalpel and if he would be faster than a bullet when Will grinned, voice dripping with cruel delight as he said, “it would be a very stupid thing to do, though, Doctor.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“There are some pretty amazing apps out there,” Will began, tilting his head. “You can schedule messages to send at specific times. Picture messages that _can_ be canceled with a pin.”

_Ah._

Clever boy.

“If I kill you, you take the pin to your grave then?” he asked, already considering the possibilities. His birthday, his dad’s birthday. Dead mothers, incarcerated friends. All the dates and all the combinations someone might use.

Will’s grin widened, practically Cheshire in its playfulness. “ _Pins,”_ he corrected. “Different people, different scheduled times, different pins. Maybe you’ll get lucky and figure out all three of them, in the right order and combination to stop them before the messages go out. Are you a gambling man, Doctor Lecter?”

He was, admittedly, impressed.

“Excellent job, Will,” he said, sincerity warming the praise. “You’ve certainly thought of everything. No, I don’t suppose I’ll kill you then. But I still maintain my offer. Having me kill will not satisfy you. You’ll still hunger for it, torment yourself over the lost opportunity.”

Will swallowed, grin slipping into a frown. “I know.”

“Think of all the things you’ll miss. Watching realization settle on their face when they recognize you as the one who will kill them. The fear and begging they’ll offer you when they realize you and you alone can save them. The sight of the light leaving their eyes. You can see it you know; the very second they die. You can see the shift of consciousness from the body. All the things you’ll deny yourself by having me do it,” he said, taking a slow step towards Will. He smelled like snow and sweat; gunpowder and dog. _Soft and sharp._ “And they would never know that it was you who killed them, ultimately. That’s important to you, isn’t it? You want them to know they’ve made a dangerous monster? That they are responsible for the very monster who would tear into them with fangs and teeth?”

There was a second of hesitation, and then Will nodded. Hannibal was close enough now to see the beads of sweat, his pores expanded by the heat. He reached a hand out, slowly laying it over Will’s bound fingers, pulling the gun to the side. “I’ll help you. I’ll testify for you. You can still have that. You can still get away with murder,” he said, his voice a low murmur. A purr. Will was softening beneath, becoming pliant. “We can say you were sleepwalking. Wasn’t that your original plan?”

He wasn’t sure he ever knew what Will’s original plan was, but it was still a feasible one. Will had laid his foundation, even if it was with a different intent- it was still there. Sturdy as ever.

Will didn’t protest as the gun was pulled from his fingers, Hannibal stepping back with the heavyweight in his palm. “I won’t kill you, but I can’t help you if I’m convicted of crimes myself. You understand, of course,” he said, turning his back on Will and opening a drawer, tucking the gun inside and locking it closed. “You’ll have to cancel all the messages.”

He could leave, he supposed. Under the veil of night. He had passports he could use, offshore accounts and physical cash stowed away for just this purpose. But he never much cared for the idea of running _away_ from something and would prefer to keep any traveling on his own terms and not to evade capture.

“You can help me,” a soft voice said, and Hannibal turned around, nodding at Will.

“Yes, I’ve already told you I’ll testify that you weren’t-”

“ _No,”_ Will ground out, lips pinching. “You can help me do it. You can...can show me how.” He licked his lips, shoulders straightening as he rose his chin, the idea blossoming in his head and taking root there. “It will be a Ripper kill. You’ll make sure of that. But I’ll do it. I’ll kill him.”

Hannibal tilted his head to the side, considering the proposition. “That would require the Ripper to relinquish one of his own, then. Any more than three and the FBI will know the Ripper wasn’t responsible for one. And I can’t imagine he’d care much for a copycat,” he intoned, watching as Will rolled his eyes at the use of the third person statements.

“It won’t be a copycat. You’ll be there, but I’ll kill him,” he said, adding after a second, “It’s the only offer I’ll make. I’ll delay the messages, but I won’t delete them until after he’s dead and labeled a victim of the Ripper.”

He would _have_ to delete them. If Hannibal was revealed as the Ripper- and one of his kills was someone Will threatened than he would be suspected out of the association. Especially if the proof was traced back to him and his blackmail was discovered. They held each other’s freedoms in their hands, bound together like parasites; like tumors feeding off a host.

Mutually assured destruction or freedom.

He had no choice but to agree.

It soothed his dignity, using the entanglement as the balm to the realization that he would agree anyway. In much the same way he yearned to see Will make a meal of his desire for violence and death at their first meeting, he yearned for this. The routine of his hunts and kills made novel once more with the addition of a protege, a like mind to crack open and mold as he saw fit. It made the loss of control, the handing over of a kill- a tableau- of his own all the more tolerable.

And he would get to see it in action.

Not just the aftermath- the hands soaked in blood and the torn body beneath the sheet. He would see it all through the voyeuristic lens, the preparation, and the moment itself- the act. Will’s becoming a private show he would be allowed access to for a small exchange he could bear to lose- there would be other kills, other tableaus.

_Other sounders._

But there would only be one moment to see the transitional state. Will shifting from one being into another. From the innocent lamb he pretended to be to the snarling, sharp-toothed wolf. To the killer he was. Transitional.

Alchemical.

The hunger he had for the rumors that would fill his home with Will’s arrest suddenly seemed so paltry- the second-hand commiseration between him and Alana as much a famine as nothing at all. None of it would nourish him now that he knew he could see the moment itself, bear witness to it.

He was aching with want at the thought, and he had to swallow away the lump in his throat. So simply had Will reduced him, an unending and enigmatic litany of surprises he would never be able to predict or manipulate to his liking.

“I suppose my hands are rather tied behind my back then,” he said, watching as something like relief loosened Will’s features. “Though, if we are to make this arrangement, we have much to discuss. If you’ll join me-” he trailed off, gesturing broadly to the two chairs sitting opposite each other.

Will swallowed thickly, averting his gaze for the first time since entering the office. “After you.”

It was a mockery of Hannibal’s etiquette, but he obliged, striding across the room and sitting in his standard chair. As though it were another appointment- one that hadn’t begun with a gun pointed to his head. He crossed his legs, the arrangement as much for comfort as it was for politeness- he was physically affected by the promise of what was to come, and the position obscured his state best.

Not as if it mattered. Will had shucked in a breath and glanced to the window, muttering something that sounded distinctly like _‘fucking pervert.’_

But Will followed him soon after, his steps hesitant- bravado gone and wavering now that his plan had succeeded and moved to the next phase. A phase he hadn’t anticipated. He stood in front of the chair, shifting his weight back and forth on his heels before finally slipping free of his coat and hat, curls flattened to his head before he ran a hand through them. He piled the clothes on his lap when he sat, like armor he was prepared to slip back into.

Silence fell between them, heavy and pregnant in the weight of all that had occurred. Secrets stripped like skin from bone, muscles flayed open. There was a true vulnerability in it, the openness now that all disguises and pretenses had been discarded. There was nothing but the crackle of fire against the wood that sat in iron teeth and the occasional howl of the window as it rattled against the large windows.

“What now?” Will asked, leaning forward in the chair. Looking for all the world like a boy who did not imagine he would make it this far.

Hannibal smiled. “I suppose now...you tell me who it is you’d like to kill.”

“Right,” Will said, clearing his throat. It became a learned thing, his privacy. His eyes flicked with the inward panic, the scrambling of his mind to finally speak about something that for so long had been unspeakable. He licked his lips, glanced away to turn to the fire, the white-hot center flaring outward- yellow to orange. The name surely sat on his tongue, tasting foul and putrid but unable to spit it out.

Feeling charitable, Hannibal said, “Frederick Chilton?”

Will startled, turning to him as if forgetting he was there. He blinked owlishly, skin crinkling around his eyes. “What? No,” he answered.

A slight incline of his brow was all Hannibal did to display his surprise. _So full of surprises._

Will gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head as he added, “Well, I mean, _yes_ , who wouldn’t? But he’s not-” he stumbled over his words, opening and closing his mouth several times before finding what he wanted to say. “It will be suspicious if the Ripper starts killing everyone I want dead. I’ve only got one shot. Need to make it count.”

Hannibal gave a small nod. “Yes, you do. Who is worthy of your violence, Will?”

Will sighed, palms spreading on the arms of the chair as he straightened in his seat, shifted so he was leaning back. His eyes closed, jaw tensing as he ground his teeth together. When he opened his eyes, it was to fix them- light blue, illuminated by the glow of the fire- on Hannibal’s own. Resolve settled in them, and finally, he said, “Doctor Sutcliffe.”

“Ah,” was all Hannibal said, leaning back in his chair.

_Redacted._

_~x~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to everyone who wanted to see Chilton die. The man does what he does best; avoid certain death for a little bit longer.
> 
> Next up; Murder Baby and (yeah, might as well embrace this since others have said it in comments) Murder Daddy discuss the terms of their arrangement. And Will finally has a meaningful therapy appointment, all it took was him threatening his therapist with a gun and making a deal with the literal devil. (There are easier ways to do that, babe)


	19. [REDACTED]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your regularly scheduled murder planning for some angst.
> 
> WARNING: This chapter is pretty heavy- not necessarily in explicitly described things so much as subject matter and just heaps of emotional content and a lot of unfortunate stuff for WIll coming to a head. Now is a good time to remind everyone of the tags and the triggering content. 
> 
> But hang in there because there's also some...fluff? In MY Hannigram fic? It's more likely than you think.

**Chapter Eighteen: [REDACTED]**

_(Four years earlier)_

Will felt small, swallowed whole by the sofa. Or partially whole. Half-consumed and abandoned, left aside in the unforgiving heat of the sun. Carrion and scavengers picking the rest of him clean. He wished he could be swallowed whole- quick and efficient and painless. Slinking into nothingness with ease instead of feeling every grind of teeth against him, turning him to splintered bones and torn flesh. Jonah had it easy, he thought crookedly. Swallowed and spat back as bones, a quick and fluid motion. There one minute and gone the next.

The sofa wasn’t particularly large- or even ornate. But he sat in the center of it where the two worn cushions met and he slipped in the spaced between them. His arms were folded across his chest, fresh cuts stinging with each shift of his sleeves. A pleasant, distracting sting. The coarse fabric of his worn flannel against it acted as a rope, a clutch for balance he could grasp and cling to. It kept him present, even if the act of creating it was less satisfying than it had once been.

He was more careful now though; had learned when to pull back and restrain himself. Learned not to search for something beneath his skin that would not be there. Searching for it only led to hospitals and stitches and the uncertain words of his dad who seemed like a stranger to him now; replaced just as assuredly as Will had been.

He thought of the myth of the changeling and wondered if that was what his dad saw when he looked at him now. An impostor masquerading around as his son. Identical in appearance but nothing more, an imitation that would never compare.

A disappointment.

Doctor Chilton was watching him. Where there had once been expectancy from him, questions to prompt Will when he lulled too much in his sessions, was now impatience. He was growing less tolerable to Will’s silence, his stubborn refusal to speak.

A breach of trust that ached too much.

“It’s been two months since the article was published, Will. Are you really still holding a grudge against it?” he asked suddenly, disbelief souring the words as if Will was being unreasonable. “No one even knows it’s about you, I didn’t use your name. And your dad gave me permission.”

He didn’t need to use his name. His disorder was unique enough that he might as well have published the article with his school photo as the cover, all awkward youth and curls neatly combed for a rare moment.

Will said nothing, petulantly turning his gaze to the bookshelves behind the man.

He had learned that lesson, too. That his words would never be safe and his own. They, too, would be half-consumed. Masticated by greedy, ever-hungry mouths thick with saliva. Chewed and chewed until they were unrecognizable- analyzed and stripped of his meaning and replaced with interpretation. Spat back on the pages of some psychology magazine or within the ones and zeros of a webpage. No one was interested in what he had to say.

Only in what they thought his words said about him.

He was less a child- a human- than he was a case study, and he would have to be a fool to make that same mistake again.

He wondered what it would be like to switch roles. To be the one doing the consuming for a change. To devour them slowly and cruelly, offering no such reprieve as a quick and efficient feast. Savor the sensation of bones breaking beneath his teeth, blood on his tongue. To have the power to twist and distort them as much as they did him.

He wanted to make them feel powerless, a heady rush that made his breath come in short pants at the thought of it. But eventually the rush was tempered by the swift guilt that followed, the shame that bubbled from the parts of his brain that recognized it as _wrong-_ acknowledged it as something he wasn’t supposed to delight in- and he would collapse into himself. A tug-of-war of his own duology.

He thought of the parable of two wolves, imagined them warring within him. A vicious beast fighting against something kinder. Both famished and emaciated from his indecision, the self-imposed starvation.

He denied himself the food he wanted.

Had no appetite for the one the world set before him.

He wondered if it were possible for both wolves to die. For him to be suspended in a moment of arrested development forever, wavering between two possibilities. Never committing to one, living a half-life.

Chilton sighed- a long and weary sound that struck Will as showy. More for the benefit of an audience than for the relief of a breath held too long. “You know, Will, I’ve been forced to review my thoughts on you,” he began, and Will couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, certain that whatever he would hear would be just as wrong as every other thought the man had on him.

“I’m starting to think you’re maybe not the most honest,” he mused, a taunt to his words. Trying to draw Will out from repose in the defense.

“How does that make you feel?” Will countered, a smug satisfaction warming his chest at the flicker of annoyance that passed over the doctor’s face.

He huffed, eyes glinting. “You’ve changed since we first began our meetings. And I’m starting to notice a penchant for manipulation,” he began, flicking through a file set before him. As if flipping back in time, searching for the exact point he saw Will in a new light.

A different case study.

“Of course, you don’t talk to me anymore, so I had to find other ways of getting to know you. Your dad and I have spoken on occasion. But most intriguing was when I reached out to your primary doctor to establish a treatment team meeting,” he said, settling on a page and smoothing the splayed file before him. “He had some interesting thoughts.”

His stomach flipped, heart leaping into his throat and he had to swallow it down. He held himself tighter, the fresh cuts hidden beneath his sleeve stinging with renewed vigor as he did so. “Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious. A perverse sort of fascination with the things Doctor Sutcliffe said about him. Knowing it wouldn’t be the truth- the whole truth, anyway- but curious for it all the same.

“Like you have a tendency to lie. Manipulate to get what you want. He seems to think you’ve been faking your illness for attention. And I’m inclined to believe him,” Chilton said.

Each sentence felt like a cut on his flesh, the drag of a sharpened blade across healing skin. Splitting the seams open and his mind buzzing with the rush of adrenaline and pain. Searing, wondrously distracting pain.

  
Pain which distracted him from all the things he could not do.

Anger mounted in him at the words- the _lies_ \- and he hissed, “That’s not true!” And it wasn’t. He was the first to admit his insolence with Chilton- acting like a brat out of spite and in a desperate need to preserve his words for fear that they too would be chewed and spat back at him. But he was _always_ good for Sutcliffe. Always quiet and did as he was told, staring at the ceiling and the glaring too-bright white haze of the halogen bulb. Staring at it until it impressed itself in his vision, until it remained even as he blinked or closed his eyes. An afterimage blurring and blinding him with light instead of shadows.

Chilton narrowed his eyes. “Why would he lie about that, Will? He’s your doctor, he wants you to get better. But you can’t do it until we get to the actual issue and we’re all on the same board.”

It _wasn’t_ the same board.

Sutcliffe didn’t want them on the same board- or at least not on the same side, wanting all others to stand with him in opposition to Will. Like a game of chess, he wanted to dominate the board. Take away so many of Will’s pieces that he was indefensible, nothing to sacrifice to protect himself.

“Maybe he’s lying because _he’s_ manipulating,” Will said, eyes narrowing in hate.

_Hate_. That’s what it was he felt, warm in his veins. Feeble fingers clutching at a crumbling and eroding cliff, realizing he was about to plummet to the scraggly rocks and water below. He felt _small_. Powerless.

“What would he have to lie about?” Chilton asked.

And the words wouldn’t come. Buried in his chest, behind the cage of his ribs. A prison made of ivory and flesh, snaring the words within the pulsing flesh of his heart and lungs. Keeping them safe. Safe from his own admission and from the twisting misinterpretation. Safe from being half consumed like every other word he said; like he himself felt.

His mouth felt dry, face flushing with the heat and shame and embarrassment that often accompanied the thought of them. The words he held close to him, imagined sinking into the marrow of his bones where they would stay until he was dead and his bones crackled and split and turned to ash.

So he pivoted, redirected control of the conversation so that the confession could sit safe inside him, where it would stay until he was rot and ash and nothing more. “Why would I hurt myself for attention?”

Chilton flourished a hand between them, bowing his head with it. “It worked, didn’t it? Your dad’s been working less to be home with you and make sure you're safe, you have a weekly rotation of doctor’s who pay attention to nothing but you for an hour each. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No,” he said, slipping his feet on the sofa cushions and wrapping his arms around his legs. He didn’t care that his dad was home more, _keeping him safe._ It was an illusion of protection, one that he didn’t want and actively resented. Hating his father for things he didn’t know but finding too much comfort in the hate to release it. Hating his dad for not seeing it but unable to make it be seen.

“What do you want then? Because you’ve told me you don’t want to hurt yourself but you keep doing it anyway. Am I confused, or are you confused?”

The words twisted, clamped down by his quickening lungs and heart, squeezed between the constricting and contracting organs. A palpable thing, and he felt as if his ribs would shatter any moment with the pressure against him. Imploding and hollowing him out.

“I don’t know,” he answered with a shrug, words trailing into a whine. He wanted to get out, wanted the talk to end. Eyes glanced to the clock hanging on the wall and he whimpered when he saw the twenty-three minutes left before he could bolt through those doors. Maybe he was confused. Maybe they both were.

Maybe the tug-of-war between the two parts of himself- the two wolves- had reached a conclusion. Both wolves, made desperate from hunger, had simply begun to eat him from the inside out.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted, just that the blade on his skin was less and less satisfying by the day. A pleasant distraction from his fluttering thoughts, but it wasn’t what he wanted, didn’t satisfy that hunger within him that wanted to consume the way others consumed him. And he imagined how different it might feel if the blade was piercing not his flesh but another. Skin soft and worn with the breakdown of collagen, elasticity lost in age. Skin pinker than his own, a warm golden tint so different from Will’s own pale flesh.

It was how he lost himself, the sensation of the blade dulled enough that he ran the risk of cutting too deep or too fervently. Ran the risk of needing more stitches and sitting under more halogen lights in a too thin hospital gown as too many people scrutinized him.

Chilton sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and dragging it downward. “Well, until you know, you’re just going to keep hurting yourself, Will. And we can’t let that happen. I think the best course is for you to be hospitalized again. Take you away from outside distractions so you can focus on your treatment and what you want without hurting yourself.”

Anger and hate turned to panic, strumming through him like a chord; like the electric snap of lightning to earth. “NO!” he shouted, lurching forward from his chrysalis of legs and entwined arms, pulling from the center of the couch. He _hated_ hospitals. Hated the routine and the too muchness of sound- chattering orderlies and buzzing lights, hallway lights that never switched off and the constant supervision. The trapped feeling of watching the doors close with a buzz, locking him in. The sterile space, and he missed his dogs and his own bed and the quiet comfort of his own space.

Words seeped through, squeezed from his chest before he could stop them. There was no more space for them, between the quickly expanding organs pressing on his ribs, and they fell from his lips like a confession to a sin he had yet to commit. “I don’t want to hurt myself. I never did. I want to hurt Sutcliffe!”

His mouth clamped closed, too late. Too many words spilling out and he locked his lips closed to keep the rest inside. Swallowed them down so he could digest them once more. Time stilled with the confession, hanging in the air like the unsettled dust of a bomb, shrapnel sitting at his feet.

The look Chilton gave him was startled, alarmed. Brows raised wide and mouth parted as the realization struck.

Will bolted, jumping from the couch and through the door, the sound of his name calling after him a distant echo. He was light without his backpack weighing him down, running through the halls of his school as though he could outrun the admission and all its consequences. His escape was clumsy, running into and shoving aside a student that didn’t part for him fast enough, an apology sealed behind his lips that he refused to part for fear of what else might bubble up with it.

It came to a too quick end when the school’s security guard caught sight of him and the student picking himself up from the floor with a groan, and stepped in front of the path Will was trying to catapult himself towards. Hands gripped his upper arms, his face colliding with the firm chest- harsh enough the buttons of his uniform embedded in his cheek.

He pulled away from them, the strangling rush of panic taking hold of him, operating his limbs of his own volition. But the hands remained, would not relent in their hold and he snarled, an animalistic sound torn from his throat as he slammed his head forward. The guard grunted, back bowing with the force of the strike even as pain blossomed in Will’s head, dizzying as it mixed with the already potent combination of his adrenaline.

He tried to scramble away, hands slapping and digging nails into whatever he could find, his pulse _painful_ as his heart raced and blood surged through him. Fear was mingling within him now, the grip on his arms only tightening, and he felt like a cornered dog with nowhere to go.

He was raised up, lifted in the air and his feet kicked out from under him, finding the harsh bulge of a knee cap and the soft and pliant give of a belly. But the blows were a short lived victory as he was tossed to the ground on his stomach, breath knocked from him. A knee pressed into his lower back, and his arms were pulled behind him, elbows bent as the guard locked him in place.

His breath was haggard, ragged pants and his fingers twitched- wet and sticky from the blood he managed to draw in his frantic attempts to pry himself free. He glanced up from his prone position on the floor, cheek cold from the linoleum, and locked eyes with Chilton, the man standing before him with a look of tepid fear. Disgust. As if finally seeing Will for the first time and being revolted by the truths etched beneath his skin.

Distantly, he was aware of the buzzing alarm that rang in the background. The sort of alarm he had only heard in drills and practices. The alarm signifying a lockdown procedure, instructing teachers to pull any wandering students into their room and lock the door.

He gritted his teeth, letting his face drop back down to the floor, listening to the periodical blare of the siren as if students needed to be reminded to stay inside until the threat was removed. He was lax by the time he was lifted up, exhaustion settling into him and body aching from the twisting punches and kicks that did no good for him in the end.

He was pulled back onto the narrow mattress of a stretcher, leather band pulled taut over his chest and wrists given a similar treatment. Chilton rode with him to the hospital, sitting opposite him in the ambulance. He was silent until the building loomed in the windows etched into the back doors, the vehicle slowing to a halt outside the emergency dock.

“When you said you want to hurt Doctor Sutcliffe...what do you mean?” he asked.

But Will knew better than to answer this time, a grimacing smile stretching on his face to give his mouth something other to do. Other than betray him once more.

The smile seemed to tell Chilton all the things Will would not, and he swallowed, a haste to his steps as he clambered down from the ambulance. The stretcher was pulled down to the asphalt below, wheels popping in place and jostling him against the restraints that seemed unnecessary now that acceptance had mellowed his fight. A fight he knew he would not win. He was pulled through the triage doors, Chilton’s words to the attending doctor who received them the last thing he heard before the _too muchness_ overcame him.

“He attacked a student and the security guard at school after revealing he has violent thoughts about his primary doctor. He’s a danger to himself and others.”

~x~

_(Present Day)_

“You’d like to kill Donald Sutcliffe,” Hannibal mused, more to himself than to Will, tutting softly into the quiet of the room. His chin was tilted back as though scanning the bookshelves lining the walls of the loft space. It was not who he had anticipated in the slightest, and electricity was thrumming through him with all the ways Will managed to surprise him. The air felt charged, combustible. As though the slightest amount of friction was all that was required to ignite and set the room ablaze. “Why?”

Curious to why the doctor had been given such a hallowed place in Will’s mind. Curious to why Will saw him as the most fitting person to see him through his becoming.

Will blanched, fingers digging into the chair and nails dragging across the leather. “Does it matter?” he ground out, voice hoarse with strain. “He’s the one I want to kill. There’s no need to dissect it.”

Hannibal considered him, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the trembling of his fingers even as they sought anchoring in the furniture, tendons straining against the tautly pulled flesh between his knuckles. The cloyingly saccharine smell of anxiety peeled off him, wafting in an aura and he recalled the meeting only a few weeks back, when Will was so tightly coiled in a way that seemed genuine- not a game or a ploy.

He narrowed his eyes, lips pinching into a thin line. “Isn’t there?”

“ _No,”_ Will said tersely. Forcefully. His leg bounced, an expulsion of energy that could not be contained, wriggling beneath his flesh and bones like bugs. Vermin infecting him with shiny thoraxes and twitching antennae.

“If I am to assist you in killing a man, I think I deserve to know why,” he said, following Will’s gaze even as Will scoffed and turned away from him, eyes bouncing around the office as though seeing it for the first time. Nervous quirks he defaulted to when pressed into an unfavorable position. A pull for vulnerability- for victimization. Hoping if he seemed too untethered- too unstable- Hannibal would drop it. “And I think, despite your persistence in the contrary, _you_ need someone to know why as well.”

Though it was becoming clearer, sharper as he considered all the interactions between them. Moments from before their assorted games stilted their interactions; moments when Will was guarded and met Hannibal with the same disguise he met others. When Will still considered the man to be nothing more than the average- if not a little odd- psychiatrist.

The phone call that interrupted his dinner with Alana, when Will first started to sleepwalk and sought for Hannibal to decipher the problem. Wanted him to change his prescriptions before relenting and agreeing to call the doctor who initially prescribed them. His primary doctor.

_Quid pro quo._

What was the _this_ for what _that?_ he wondered, watching as the coiling wire of energy suddenly became too much and Will leapt from the chair, running a hand through his sweat slicked curls and pacing the room. He came to a stop beside the bronze statue of the stag, turning his back to Hannibal but the motion of his elbow was visible as he trailed a finger across the antlers.

He remembered the feel of Will shirking from his touch when he guided him to the waiting room, where his father decried Will’s apathy to the kindness of his doctor’s pro bono medical work. _‘Free for you,’_ he had mumbled, sloping himself against the door, bitter resentment lacing the words.

He had suspected Will would be touch starved, desperate for the attentions and affection he did not receive from the father who didn’t understand him and the mother who could not offer them, dust and rot in an above ground tomb. And perhaps he was, a desire for something he wanted but feared buried deep within. Wanted something he shied away from because it had always been the wrong sort of touch. Cruel and greedy and selfish. _Painful._

He didn’t rise from his chair, though he wanted to. Suddenly aware that Will’s comfort was more important than his desire to loom over him; omnipresent and omniscient. “What happens at your appointments after your father drops you off, Will?” he asked softly, the elbow stilling as Will’s spine became rigid. When he did not answer, preferring instead to remain statuesque as though doing so would make him invisible, Hannibal added, “From a psychological standpoint, revenge is hardly as cathartic as one envisions it. While I’m certainly not dissuading you-” _certainly not, he would kill Sutcliffe himself if need be_ “-it alone will not be an adequate way to heal.”

Will snorted inelegantly, finally twisting around to look at Hannibal. Eyes shiny and pink, face flushed. “Are you suggesting _actual therapy_? What a novel concept coming from you.”

“I’ve always offered _actual therapy,_ ” he countered, mirroring the careful enunciation of the words for effect. “My goal with your therapy was for you to come to terms with what you are and what you want, and I believe we’re doing that now. If only after a rather unconventional path to get there.” The blood on his face was drying, itching as it tightened on his flesh. A low, residual ache echoed across his skull. It had been a good hit.

Will swallowed. “What I _want_ ,” he began, tendons in his throat straining with the force of his words, jaw clenched, “is to kill Sutcliffe. Not talk about my feelings.”

“And you will,” Hannibal said with a nod, deciding it best to leave the subject untouched for now. He was still raw, stripped and vulnerable; and pressing forward now would only further sever the healing nerves. “I’m sure you’re aware of the Ripper’s techniques,” he said, words measured and weighted. The way he spoke when he was saying something else within the negative space of the words he voiced. “His victims die from mutilation- some would call it brutal torture.”

Something shined in Will’s eyes, only for it to be blinked away. He nodded.

“In order for it to be seen as a Ripper kill, that is how you will have to kill him. I take it you’ve given it some thought?” he asked, a slim smile tilting his lips when Will nodded once more- _emphatically._

“The...” Will started, pausing to clear his throat. Words hoarse and roughened over _something_ he would not give name to. He licked his lips, and Hannibal forced himself to ignore the motion, eyes remaining focused on Will’s own. “The hard part is picking just _one_. The Ripper wouldn’t be...so chaotic. I can’t do all of them, even if I want to.”

Hannibal shook his head, his words soft, pleased and warm with the _understanding_ that sat in Will’s interpretation. “No. I’m afraid you’ll have to tailor yourself if you want it to be believable. Pick your favorite one,” he advised. He was tempted to ask _what_ exactly was his favorite one, but it might be overwhelming. Will did not come here expecting to do it himself- to be able to pluck a fantasy straight from the darkest corner of his mind and realize it. _Actualize it._ He would need time to consider, to fine tune which one was most fitting. Three different facets to be considered.

A kill that would satisfy Will.

A kill that would represent the Ripper.

A kill that would give Sutcliffe the fate he deserved.

He had some ideas of his own, tableaus forming and shifting within his mind’s eye. A scene constructed before him, all the things and motifs he could subvert in his mockery of the man.

The idea of losing a kill of his own- sacrificing one of his own pigs to make room for Will’s- was barely a consideration anymore. There was no behavior more abhorrent, more deserving of being tormented and slaughtered. If anything, he took more slight at the thought that he would be given any honor at all, stiff limbs and ripped open skin made muse to the art they would create of him. He didn’t seem deserving of such beautification, a redemption for his boorish and unsightly behavior in the form of a masterpiece.

But it was Will’s tableau to construct. Will’s pig to slaughter.

He would not wish to tamper with something so pure as his righteous hate.

Will sighed, and the sound pulled Hannibal from his thoughts- from the perverse and ironic statements he could make with the doctor. “When do I...when do I have to know?”

_When will we do it?_

It was his intent to have his pantries full in time for his dinner party, but it would be a tight timeline for Will to prepare himself for, especially with a week of classes still to expect. He still had his guest in the basement- and he could always hunt down his intended third kill separately. A quiet affair, a missing persons report with nothing to be found and ensuring his guests on Friday would be well fed.

“Your father has overnight deliveries next week?” he asked, recalling William’s concern with leaving Will alone when he was deteriorating.

Will nodded slowly. “One. He made different arrangements for most but one he couldn’t. Tuesday into Wednesday; the twenty-third into the twenty-fourth. They bought a refurbished boat and want it in time for Christmas, but don’t have anywhere to hide it. A gift, I guess,” he answered.

Hannibal hummed in thought, tilting his head back and glancing to the window, snow still falling steadily from the sky. “I presume your sleepwalking isn’t as out of control as you made it seem?”

Will allowed himself a small indulgent grin. “I was trying to make you think I was up to something else. I guess it worked.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal confessed, a small trill of delight running up his spine. Wondering just what Will had done when Hannibal was too distracted by the ornaments he dangled in front of his face. He thought once more of how interesting his toy was before dismissing the thought- Will was not a toy; he had made that abundantly clear. “Keep it up, then. In a few hours, I’ll call your father to have him pick you up. We’ll tell him you became so distraught by an incident of sleepwalking that you drove here without thinking. I’ll express my concern and suggest that you’re father either hospitalize you-”

“No!” Will shouted, reeling back when Hannibal extended a hand to signify he was not done speaking.

“I’ll suggest he either hospitalize you for a mandatory three day hold while he is away, or offer taking you into my care for the night to ensure you’re safe while he’s away,” he said, and Will sneered at that, face scowling unattractively.

“You’re going to offer to be my babysitter?”

Hannibal tried- and failed- to hide his amusement. “Yes.”

He was displeased by the idea, but agreed to it with a jerky head nod. “We’ll be each other’s alibi then? When they...discover it.”

_It_.

Already distancing himself from the man, dehumanizing him. Hannibal nodded. “Even if you are brought under suspicion because of your threat and history, the same reservations will not extend to me. No one would suspect me of covering for you. I’m a respected leader in my field and have even begun consulting with the FBI.”

Will jerked his chin at that, eyes narrowing into slits before huffing out an incredulous, manic laugh. “Of fucking course you have,” he said, the voice thin and reedy. Bordering on hysterical. Hannibal frowned, wondering the sort of state he was in. His mind must be a tangled mess of conflicting emotions, trailing thoughts that jumbled together and split. Specters from his past clashing with the expectations of his future, fantasies shifting to startling reality.

He had come here expecting to walk away with the knowledge that his problem would come to a violent end, a deed done behind the scenes. That he would hear about through news reports and the points in his life where he and Sutcliffe were connected. Maybe he would be invited to the funeral, attending it with interest and avarice for the suffering he had not been there to see.

It was another thing entirely to do it oneself, even if he had imagined it a thousand times over. Years worth of fantasies that were clear and concise enough they appeared with the same vibrancy of memories. Reality and its consequences were a damning chain around the ankle, morality seeping into the fantasies and coloring it with guilt. Or shame that there wasn’t enough guilt.

Another thing entirely to have your desires validated instead of shunned. To find someone who not only accepted something considered so wicked and foul, but encouraged it openly.

It was an alarming degree of cognitive dissonance- a desire so strong, a want so great it strove him to manipulate and confront and _attack_ a killer whom other men would flee from without a second’s hesitation. But desire didn’t always stand to expectations, and the reality of taking a life- even one so undeserving of it- was like a fracture to his stability.

“We have a little over a week then,” he said, drawing Will’s fluttering focus back to the moment, watching as he blinked, manic laughter coming to a tapered end. “I’d like for you to consider how you want to do it. If you could let me know by Monday so I have time to prepare it would be appreciated. You don’t need to have everything ironed out right now. You can take your time.”

He pursed his lips, expression sobering as he nodded. He seemed grateful for the time to think- the time to sort and pick through his thoughts until he could decipher the ones that felt right. That felt like his own. “Monday...I can do that.”

Hannibal nodded, hoping the teen would relax now; his erratic energy was unsettling, and he wished the tight pull of his shoulders would loosen. Relax with the knowledge that soon it would come to an end. An end that would lead to a new beginning, growth from something wilting.

He didn’t relax though, eyes flicking around the room nervously, on anything but Hannibal and he swallowed so harshly hollows were created on either side of his throat. He stepped forward until he stood directly before Hannibal, still not looking at him even as he dropped to his knees, a palm- warm and damp with sweat- curled over his knee and pushed, separating them so his legs fell open. He tried to shift between them, only to come to an abrupt halt when Hannibal reached forward, grabbing hold of both of his wrists- one in each hand. His pulse thrummed an uneven staccato against his palm.

“This is not that kind of arrangement, Will,” he said firmly, enunciating each syllable. It took more effort than he cared to admit, keeping the simmering rage from his words. Making them as sharp and pointed as a blade. Something stirred in his chest, and he decided he hated the sight of Will on his knees, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. He liked him better when he was standing above him, loaded gun leveled at his head. He jerked his hands roughly, trying to pull him up.

But he remained, letting his arms raise with the motion but tugging them back down, lips skewing into a pout. “I thought you...I mean, you were...and you’re helping me so-”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “I agreed to help you at first because you have incriminating evidence on me. I am enthusiastic about it because Sutcliffe is a pig. And I always encourage the slaughtering of pigs. I _want_ to help you. This is not _quid pro quo._ ”

The anger settled into his words now, sloping. Like worms slithering in mud. It was not meant for Will, but at all the people in his life who convinced him such relationships were founded only in transactions. In what he had to offer, presenting himself on a silver platter. Not just Sutcliffe, but Chilton and Matthew. Different transactions, mired in their greed for something that wasn’t theirs to claim.

Matthew’s attentions seemed more sinister now in this new light, and he wished he had killed him when he had the chance.

An endeavor for another day. He would not be protected for long, after all.

Will’s face was almost unrecognizable. Pulled somewhere on a spectrum between humiliation, relief and hurt at the rejection. Hannibal's fingers were still curled around his wrists, and he released them, sliding his hands up and forward until they nestled in Will’s underarms and heaving him up in a movement the teen only partially resisted. He stiffened as he was pulled onto Hannibal’s lap, muscles flexed so tightly he felt as if he might shatter. He allowed Hannibal to maneuver him, resting sidelong on his lap so his feet slipped in the space created by the looping arm of the chair. His breathing hitched, rasping between straining lungs and flared nostrils.

It must have felt odd, cradled in a way he hadn’t been since he was a toddler, and he was tense even as Hannibal wound his arms around him. One arm snaked across his waist, the other draping across his back so his hand could splay against the curls, lowering Will’s head to rest on his shoulder. He could feel his breath against the side of his neck, quick puffs of air from unsatisfied lungs, the scent of his anxiety an overwhelming perfume this close. Sweat was slicking his skin even after peeling off his jacket, locks dampened beneath Hannibal’s fingers.

“Will, you’re having a panic attack,” he said, tone neutral. Grounding. “Wherever you think you are, you’re not there.” The tears were wet against his neck, but quiet, the dampness and slight shivering of Will’s shoulders the only indication that he was crying at all. He wasn’t even sure if Will heard him, or if his voice was simply blending into the background, sinking into the ambiance created by the howl of the wind and the crackle of the fire. He continued to speak regardless- intermittently, not so consistent that Will would confuse his voice for the treacherous things happening within his head. Yet often enough that it was a pull, a sharp tug against the memories made vicious by teeth and claws.

He unwound in slow, unfurling increments. Shoulders slacking, legs twisting sideways to rest more comfortably in the position. There was a point where he shifted, curled himself more fully against Hannibal, a loosely held fist resting on his chest. A point where the shaking waned until he heaved a shuddering sigh. The sort of sigh one offered when everything else had been squeezed from them. When they had nothing left to give.

Will sank into Hannibal then, his breath evening out into huffs of warm air that fanned against his neck. His weight was more full and prominent as his muscles released the tension held there for so long, the weightlessness of sleep making him pliant.

Resting his hand against Will’s head, nestled in the crook between his shoulder and neck, he raised the other hand, glancing at his watch. Nearly six in the morning now. Soon, he would be expected to meet with Jack Crawford and Alana in Quantico, reviewing the case files of the Ripper and the fresh kill now that forensics should have a completed report. Will’s dad would surely be waking soon, and Will would be expected at school.

And there was of course the matter of the timed messages Will had arranged- _very clever_. They would need to be delayed until their inevitable deletion.

He glanced at Will, his face obscured from the odd angle and how firmly he was tucked away. As if he could burrow into Hannibal and vanish from the world. He never slept well, Will had said- even less so over the last few weeks he imagined, the hours of sleep instead dedicated to hunting Hannibal until his successful lure.

He would cancel on Jack for today- this new endeavor far more intriguing and worthy of his time than satisfying his narcissistic desire to hear the fumbling attempts to construct his own profile. And he would call William and tell him what the lie he and Will constructed; call Chilton to excuse his absence from school as a medical emergency. And he would have Will delay the messages for two weeks- a date set in the distant future where Sutcliffe was no longer the monster Will’s mind had crafted him into. The dead were nothing to be afraid of, after all.

But for now, he would let him sleep. He leaned his head back in the chair, eyes closed as he listened to the sound of the fire winding down, embers hissing beneath the blackened bark of the firewood. The sound of the wind pressing in on the window and soft exhalations as Will slept.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a little nervous about this chapter because the flashback scene was added entirely on a whim haha. Hopefully, it worked together as a whole. 
> 
> Also, Hannibal is so flip-floppy. The last chapter he was like: You want ME to kill for YOU? Like some kind of dog you can command? How DARE you? 
> 
> And at the end of this chapter, he’s practically sharpening his knives while wearing his murder suit outside the home of everyone who ever wronged Will like: Come outside, I just want to talk.
> 
> Next up: Premeditated Murder shenanigans (you know how you do with your therapist) over breakfast and Hannibal disparages Will for his culinary preferences. Not as if he has any room to talk.


	20. Force Feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he wanted to be seen, fully and wholly. And there was, conversely, something extraordinarily human in that. Hadn’t that been why Matthew attached himself to Will? Why Will tolerated his misplaced affections and teeming obsession? Because as alone as they were, as their disordered brains made them, at least they were alone together. A comradery in their disease that eased the dull ache of loneliness; a reminder that as wrong as the pieces of themselves were, they fit together.
> 
> For all the colleagues and friends he toted, Hannibal Lecter was lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Rewrote this whole chapter because I didn’t like the flow. Still don’t but c’est la vie I guess.
> 
> Warning: Now that the “secret is out” for Will, the subject matter will come up with more frequency. There will NOT be any explicit descriptions or scenes regarding it, but Will is now sort of moving forward from the denial phase to actively confronting it and will begin to examine his feelings on the matter in comparison to his murder plans/ relationship with others. I’ll place a brief warning at the start of each chapter with any relevant concerns or additional warnings, but the whole point of this story was Will coming into his own and rediscovering his agency and dealing with it is an important part of that.
> 
> Are y’all ready for the complete 180 in their dynamic??!?!

**Chapter Nineteen: Force Feed**

The sound of his knees hitting the hardwood was quiet, jeans muffling the sound. But it might as well have been a gunshot, his senses tautly pulled and amplified. He was hyperaware of the world around him- the crackle of the fire and the gush of the wind against the window. The erratic thumping of his heart against his ribs, sending tremors in shockwaves throughout him and the rush of his blood like the roaring waves of an ocean in his ears. The floor was painful beneath his knees, and he focused on the ache that resonated up his thighs. It was preferable to the feel of the warm cloth-covered skin beneath his palms, the sensation of drool behind his teeth, and the anticipatory taste of bile on his tongue.

He was startled when Lecter grabbed his wrists in a too-tight grip, his voice stern and edging on something dark as he said, “This is not that kind of arrangement, Will.” He jerked his hands as if punctuating the statement, trying to pull Will up but he remained in place.

He wasn’t _stupid_. He was aware of the man’s arousal on several occasions, had even seen evidence of it earlier that evening and it wasn’t as if Lecter was above depravity. He was a killer. A mutilator. He spent his twilight hours torturing and murdering innocents, propping them up from strings like suspended marionettes, frozen in a scene he brought to life with death. A hedonist, delighting in the sinful pleasures in life as much as the torments and Will would be foolish to think he would be satisfied with the arrangement; losing a kill of his own because Will had blackmailed him into relenting it, forced his hand in helping him.

It was still entirely possible he would kill Will, when all was said and done. The moment Will released hold of his hand of cards and deleted the messages he would lose the leash he had on the man- the _monster_. He imagined Lecter stepping forward with a hidden blade, gutting him quickly and efficiently as if cutting away the loose thread; the only obstruction between him and freedom.

It was a cold thought, but not as cold as it could have been. At least he would be able to drag Sutcliffe with him on his descent to Hell, the hunger that panged him for so long finally satiated.

He tried to say as much, tried to tell Lecter that he was just trying to do what he thought he wanted. Just trying to be _good._ But the words wouldn’t come- not right, at least. Scrambling and scattering from his lips. As if he had gotten so used to burying them within his chest and the fleshy walls of his stomach that he had forgotten how to employ them.

Lecter spoke then, and the words bubbled with something sharp, tugging at him even as the voice seemed distorted through a veil. He could only hear parts of what he said, clips and pieces. He _wanted_ to help. _Sutcliffe was a pig and pigs are only fit for slaughter_.

It was an odd cocktail of emotions, relief and gratefulness flooding him with such fervor he felt sick, stomach twisting so tightly he thought he might vomit right then and there. Yet, there was also the plummeting sensation of humiliation coloring his cheeks, the sting of rejection, and the grip of panic that he had done something wrong.

He didn’t resist when Lecter pulled him onto his lap, tense and uncertain of what was happening even as arms wound around him. It was jarring, expectations subverted when he realized that it was Lecter’s intent to simply _hold_ him. Not the needy way Matthew clung to him after their perfunctory orgasms, draping himself over him without concern for the scowl Will gave and the way he tried to wriggle out from under him. Or the cruel way Sutcliffe held him in place. But holding him in the cradle of his arms, an action so delicate it only made his spine tighten, anticipating something that would be a sharp dichotomy to the embrace.

Maybe Lecter was a gambling man after all and was going to snap Will’s neck.

The reality of it was absurd, knowing that the same arms holding him with such care had done the exact opposite of that to so many others. He didn’t expect tenderness often, but he certainly didn’t expect it from a _serial killer._

Maybe it was another game, a way to endear himself to Will so he would be caught off guard by the inevitable dig of a blade into his stomach.

He wondered if Lecter would hold him then, blood smearing between them and a hand running through his hair as he shook, the edges of his vision eclipsed in shadows. If he was going to be killed, he’d at least liked to be held through it, he thought.

He could convince himself he was just falling asleep that way.

~x~

Will awoke to someone shaking his shoulder, huffing softly in annoyance at the disturbance. “No,” he mumbled, exhaustion weighing down his eyes. There was a pressing ache against his forehead as if a band was wound too tightly on his skull, and he knew it was his lack of sleeping finally getting to him. His body revolting as he pushed himself to his limits.

He didn’t want to wake up.

But his shoulder shook again, and he heard the sound of his name, murmured through his hair, and his spine stiffened as the voice and accent tugged at his brain. Alertness struck him all at once, the night before- or early morning, time was getting harder to keep track of- colliding against him with such force it was a physical thing, gasping harshly. The realization that he was _cuddling_ his psychiatrist- the _Chesapeake Ripper_ \- made him flinch, spasm with the sort of energy normally reserved for a near-death experience.

Perhaps it was appropriate, though. Cuddling a serial killer certainly felt like a near-death experience.

His hands and feet acted of their own accord and he was partially aware of his knee hitting something that made a grunt as he flailed onto the floor, pulling himself to a stand.

Lecter’s palm was curled around his nose, enclosing his face as he rose a brow and asked, “Do you always wake up with such enthusiasm?”

“Only when I wake up on the lap of a serial killer,” he said dryly, once more pondering the absurdity of the situation he found himself in. Maybe he was going mad. Proper insanity and this was all playing out in his head like a crude skit. His imagination had a foul sense of humor to create such a scene, he decided.

“Lucky me,” Lecter said, pulling his hand back to examine the blood smearing his palm. “You have an annoying habit of making me bleed.”

The blood from where he struck him with the gun was still there, stiff against his hair where it dried, flakes clinging like mud down the slope of his face. He scowled but said nothing. He would be damned if he was going to apologize to someone like him, the sort of person who took delight in killing innocent people and hoisting them up like mannequins in a shop window.

Lecter rose from the chair, plucking some tissues from a box on the table beside him and pressing it to his nose. “I’m going to clean up, and then I’ll take you to my house for breakfast. Will your dad be awake if I call him now?”

He pinched his lips, guilt flaring in his stomach. “He- ugh..he tends to sleep until about ten or eleven when I...I’ve been drugging him,” he stammered, wincing at the admission.

Lecter glanced at him, amusement crinkling in his eyes. “I’ll leave him a voicemail, then,” was all he said before disappearing into the attached bathroom, the door clicking behind him.

He was left alone in the large office, the light of day filtering in through the window, bright as the sun reflected off the snow. It glittered prettily, throwing prisms of color through the glass from the blanketed world below, and once more it seemed _absurd_. The morning so vastly different now, as if he awoke on a parallel universe where everything was slightly to the left of where it should be.

The hours before had seemed a dream, forgotten in the pull of an alarm clock and the start of the day. If not for the blood staining Lecter’s face, he might have even doubted if any of it had happened at all. The memory slipping into the recesses of his mind like a bad nightmare he would move on from by lunchtime.

But it wasn’t a dream; it had been a reality. The weight of the gun in his hand and the weight of the deal he made with what could be the devil for all he knew. It played in his head, like a blinking film strip tinted in sepia tone.

He slid his hands into his pockets, licking his lips as he glanced through the window. The world was just beginning to wake up, cars slowly driving on the road- a plow had gone through at some point, clearing the road enough the gray asphalt beneath was revealed. The pristine snow was muddied on the road, disturbing the otherwise picturesque scene.

His jaw clenched, tension settling into him just as it did every day. As much a part of his daily routine as brushing his teeth.

He should feel...different.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he considered this moment- or one like it. But he suspected he would feel changed in some way. Introspective, maybe. Maudlin, even. Philosophical in the ethical debacle he had made for himself, different schools of thought and morality waging war in his mind.

But there was nothing of the sort. He felt decidedly the same. As unremarkable as ever.

He didn’t regret it. It was a thought that should have concerned him- wary of the ambivalence he regarded with this decision that would leave a man dead in less than two weeks. There was a sort of thrill to it, knowing the exact date someone would die. He envisioned Sutcliffe’s planner, the appointments, and errands notated on the lined pages. There was a grim delight at the knowledge that everything after a date only he and Lecter knew would be meaningless. Canceled without notice. A quick and abrupt end to his life that he had so carefully planned and arranged.

There was the stir of the shadow within his head, something he imagined might be a conscience. Not as strong as it should be, but strong enough that he was aware of and despised himself for having such weak morality. An odd sort of dichotomy, a tenuous balance between two halves of himself that seemed to always be separate. Never whole.

He wondered if Sutcliffe had a conscience, or if he was just good at ignoring it.

Maybe he should ask how he managed that. Get a few pointers.

The door to the bathroom opened, and he turned just as Lecter entered the room. His face was clean of all the blood- dried or otherwise- and there was already the start of a bruise blooming across his temple- a feverish yellow color that looked jarring against his olive skin. His nose was red and beginning to swell- that would probably bruise too.

There was a smug sense of satisfaction at knowing he had marked the Chesapeake Ripper, even as the pathetic and weak thing that was his conscience bleated at that.

He watched silently as Lecter milled about the room, stamping out what little embers still burned in the hearth and suffocating them beneath his heel. He pulled the winter coat from over his chair and shirked it on in a smooth, graceful motion. His hair was loose, wisps brushing over his brow and he looked softer like that; less severe when his hair wasn’t gelled to the side and revealing the sharp contours of his face, like a skull. It was a hard image to reconcile him with the image of a cruel and sadistic psychopath.

“Will your dad notice the absence of the gun?” Lecter asked, and Will blinked, remembering the weapon he had come prepared with that had been so easily pulled from his hands.

He nodded. “He checks it randomly but often enough. Especially if I’m...having episodes.”

Lecter unlocked the drawer, plucking the gun from within and settling it in the coat of his winter jacket. “I’ll slip it into your dad’s car when he comes to pick you up. Under your seat. I trust you can sneak it back where it belongs?”

Will blinked, nodding slowly as Lecter grabbed the discarded army coat and approached Will, holding it open until Will understood the silent request and turned from him, arms slipping through the sleeves as Lecter helped him into the jacket.

“Just like how you framed Matthew?” he asked before he could stop himself, the hands that smoothed over the shoulders of his coat pausing before pulling back.

“Yes,” was all he said. A hat was tugged over Will’s head, gently and mindful of his curls but it was a discomforting gesture- too much like kindness- and he reached up and batted Lecter’s hand away, pulling off the hat and shoving it in his pocket.

“Why?”

He turned to face him, watched as Lecter pulled on his leather gloves, and was once more reminded of all the horrible things those hands were responsible for. He looked away.

“He was following me,” Lecter said simply. And then, as if it was all the reason he needed, he added, “And I didn’t like how he treated you.”

It seemed like an overreaction, but Will thought better of saying as much. He didn’t quite feel like pressing his luck just yet.

They walked out onto the street in silence, Will waiting beside the car as Lecter locked the doors to his office and strode down the steps to join him. He glanced at the Jeep Will had driven over last and gestured to it, a slim smile pulling on his face. “Ah. I believe I saw that once or twice on my street. I assumed the holidays were bringing unusual guests to my neighbors,” he answered. He sounded almost proud, recounting the stalking that slipped his notice. “You’re very lucky you didn’t get hurt, Will. Or pulled over. Driving without a license is a serious offense.”

“Bold words considering the source,” Will mumbled impulsively.

The only indication Lecter gave that he heard him was a ghost of a grin and a glint in his eyes as he opened the passenger side door for Will, who hesitated for a moment before stepping in. If Lecter was going to kill him, he had the opportunity when Will slept, draping over him like a child desperate for comfort.

The door closed behind him, and soon Lecter was sitting beside him, keys in the ignition. Once more, he considered how odd the moment was. He could almost pretend it was like any other therapy appointment and he was being escorted once more to the bus station. As if one of the world’s most notorious and elusive serial killers wasn’t about to drive him to his own home for breakfast.

He rubbed his eyes, still sore from lack of sleep. Thankfully, it was a quick drive, or else he might have fallen asleep- again. Embarrassingly. He felt every bit the age he was, juvenile now that the thrill of the gun in his hands and Lecter under the barrel had been displaced with this odd, stilted truce between them.

“I have a few calls to make,” Lecter said and Will’s eyes were drawn to the clock on the center of the dashboard. He shucked in a breath, realizing the time. Nine in the morning. He wondered if Chilton had sent out the search party for him yet. “And you have a few messages to delay.”

“I have time,” was all he said in answer. The first of the messages wouldn’t be sent out until mid-afternoon, and he enjoyed the way Lecter’s knuckles flexed on the steering wheel at the obvious power play.

“Very well,” he said, voice low and restrained. Will imagined he wasn’t used to relinquishing control in his life, and there was a thrill at upsetting his carefully balanced and maintained life.

They pulled into the driveway of his home- cleared despite the overnight snow and Will had to stifle his snort at the realization that he probably paid someone to shovel it who already went through. Such a stark difference to him and his dad, digging the snowblower out from the garage after spending several hours tinkering with it and hoping that it still worked this season.

He pulled the keys from the ignition, finding a particular brass key and pinching it between his thumb and forefinger as he held it out for Will. “You can head inside while I call your dad and Chilton. My apologies for not being able to settle you in, but you are more than welcome to help yourself to anything you’d like. If there’s anything specific you’d like for breakfast, feel free to prepare for it and I’ll be in to help you shortly.” It was a sincere apology, and Will frowned at the notion. What an odd man, tearing men and women apart but apologizing for not being the one to fetch Will a glass of water.

He grabbed the keys, fingers brushing Lecter’s to keep the house key separate from the rest, and slipped from the car without a word. The home seemed different now, in light of what he knew about the man. The ornaments were less a simple distraction and more tongue-in-cheek now, sinister declarations to the world that beckoned them to see the monster beneath the neat coif of hair and expensive suits.

The decorative bones and mounted heads in the living room seemed a mockery, and Will scowled at them as if they were responsible for withholding the truth from the world. It probably wasn’t what Lecter meant when he told him to help himself, but he stepped into the room, glancing at it with new eyes. The green coloring of the ornate wallpaper and furniture- not a vibrant or even mellow green, a calming sage- but a hideous color. A shade settled somewhere between brown and green and made the room look as if it existed in a filter.

As if stepping into a portrait.

He walked through, pulling his jacket off and tossing it on the sofa as he approached the harpsichord, fingers trilling a pitched and discordant noise as he slid his hand across the keys. The music echoing in his ears, he approached the desk, touching the decorative skull of some beast of burden, following the curling trail of the horns.

_He wanted people to know what he was._

Not entirely- he didn’t want the consequences, the imprisonment. And there was probably some perverse delight in rubbing elbows with the upper echelon of society and the FBI who had no idea there was a monster in their midst.

But he wanted to be seen, fully and wholly. And there was, conversely, something extraordinarily human in that. Hadn’t that been why Matthew attached himself to Will? Why Will tolerated his misplaced affections and teeming obsession? Because as alone as they were, as their disordered brains made them, at least they were alone together. A comradery in their disease that eased the dull ache of loneliness; a reminder that as wrong as the pieces of themselves were, they fit together.

For all the colleagues and friends he toted, Hannibal Lecter was lonely.

Just as the gesture of the man settling his hat on his head for him had been, this too was a discomfiting thought and he shoved it away as quickly as he could, focus turning to the desk. The very desk he watched Lecter sit at in the late hours of the evening before locking his sketchbook away.

With a quick glance at the door in the foyer, he knelt down, digging through the set of keys until he found several smaller ones that would fit into the lock. He tried two before the third one turned with a click. The drawer slid open, and he glanced inside at the neatly arranged contents. A leather pencil pouched tucked beside a sketchbook.

He plucked it from the drawer, sitting cross-legged on the rug with his back pressed against the desk, knobs digging painfully into his spine but ignoring it as he set the book in his lap. There were loose leaves of paper tucked away between the bound pages, and he pulled them out with a sparse, uninterested glance. Figure studies, nude and soft bodies pulled into angles, erased lines and circles showing the ghost of Lecter's mathematics as he devised the proportion between the foreground and background. There were firm drawings of buildings, boring in their tight structure like a blueprint and he tossed them aside to scrutinize the people crafted in the lines of graphite.

There was a softness to Lecter’s hand, and it reminded Will of the oil paintings from the Renaissance. Softly rounded faces, as if cherubs. A flatness to the form even in the plump cheeks and curves of plush stomach and thighs. He was talented, he admitted to himself, though he supposed he wasn’t surprised. He knew Lecter had a fondness for the arts, an appreciation for the beauty one could create with the proper muse and tools, and translated that appreciation in tools of his own. Turning victims into muses, divining a something from their nothing.

He swallowed thickly, shoving the thoughts away once more. As if there was a box in his mind of all the things he knew about Lecter that felt too close to something in himself and needed to be locked away for such a slight.

The pages of the sketchbook were thick, coarse between his fingers. He knew there were different types of paper for different mediums- rough and stiff for the heavy saturation of watercolors, smooth and thin for the soft impressions of pencils. This was somewhere in between, accommodating charcoal and graphite in like measure and he was careful to handle only the edge to avoid leaving his fingerprints on the pages of inky blackness, charcoal heavy against the paper.

His perusing came to an end when he found a drawing, an image ripped from his own memory though seen from an angle not his own.

Matthew was right; Lecter had watched as Will strangled him, etched the image of it into his mind’s eye before committing it to paper. It was disorienting, staring at his own face, carefully drawn with such startling attention. The sharp angle of his chin and the wide stretch of his jaw, the slightly too-wide and rounded tip of his nose. Each detail constructed with reverent grace, made even more obvious by the more muted features of Matthew beneath him, face blurred and cast in shadow to conceal the lack of attention.

But more jarring than the discrepancy between the two renditions was the expression Will’s face was drawn into and he wondered- _hoped_ \- that it was crafted with artistic license. That Lecter had drawn Will not as he saw him that night but as he wanted to see him, because the idea that Will’s face had sat in such subtle joy, lips parted and eyes half-lidded, was not a reality he wanted to be confronted with.

The look of intrigue, the euphoria that was carved into each curving line of the pencil unwound within him, made his stomach twist in revulsion.

He felt sick, and he wanted to believe it was because the idea of Lecter drawing him with such reverence was a repulsive thing but it was an ornament of distraction he offered himself. An ornament to hide behind the disgust at seeing himself in such a moment, confronted with the reality of his delight as Matthew’s breath lodge beneath his hand- as his lips turned blue and _deoxygenated._ It wasn’t simply an intimate thing to find in the sketchbook, but a damning thing as well and though it was not the same it seemed just as incriminating as the photos buried safely in Will’s phone, locked away so only he could see or delete them.

“You didn’t make it very far.”

He jumped at the sound of the voice, gasping sharply and scrambling into a stand as his eyes met Lecter’s gaze. He was standing in the doorway, his winter coat gone and Will wondered how lost in his thoughts he had to have been to not hear him as he entered and settled in.

Bourbon colored eyes fell on the still-open sketchbook in Will’s hand, considering it with minute interest before returning to Will. “Snooping around?”

It sounded like an accusation even if the tone was playful and Will bristled, spine straightening. “Just trying to understand the man I’ve sold my soul to,” he said with a sneer, about to clamp the sketchbook closed before hesitating, eyes settling on the drawing once more.

He didn’t want Lecter to have it- as if taking it away would take the memory with it, absolve Will of the sin he wouldn’t confess to.

“I’m taking this,” he said, holding the splayed spine in one hand as the other grabbed the corner of the page, pulling it with a sharp, crinkling tear. He tossed the sketchbook onto the desk, holding the page out before him like a prize or a grenade- he was unsure which.

“Okay,” was all Lecter said, face impassive.

His lips twitched in annoyance and, to make certain Lecter understood it wasn’t a form of flattery, he crumpled the drawing up in his hands, a ball of thick paper that tried to unfurl. When the paper was as small and wrinkled as it would be, he shoved it in his pocket, raising his chin defiantly as he strode past Lecter and towards the kitchen.

His face flickered from impassive to amusement and it was not the reaction Will wanted, frustration mounting at the man.

He was in his _glory_ , Will realized. Opening the door to his world that was kept locked for so long with a grateful and inviting wave of his hand. Like a child stumbling into an unattended candy store, treats wound in colorful and shiny wrappers, he was delighted as he watched Will pull and tug away at all his ornaments. Dismantling the carefully arranged facade with clumsy hands.

Perhaps a more accurate metaphor saw Will as the child, though, stumbling upon a cottage of treats while a witch warmed the oven.

Idly, he ran a hand over his stomach as if feeling the seams from an imaginary wound. Would Lecter kill him when their deal had reached its end? Or would the delight of having someone see him for what he was be too great a delight to not indulge in?

“What do you normally eat for breakfast?” Lecter asked as he followed him into the kitchen, washing his hands at the sink with methodical consideration. Like a doctor preparing for surgery.

“Toast and jelly. Or eggs,” he answered with a shrug, once more thinking of a witch- fattening him up so he was a plump and tender dish.

“Just plain eggs?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sometimes with ketchup. But I also like them with potato chips sprinkled on top.”

Lecter stilled in his washing, glancing up at Will with narrowed eyes, a look of offense on his face that Will had never seen, even when he held a gun to his head. “Potato chips, Will?”

“I like the barbecue ones most.”

The expression was best described as disparaging and Will was torn between crooked humor and horror that he seemed more aghast to Will’s culinary crimes than his intended violent ones. _What an odd man._

“I will make a hash with eggs. You will get tomatoes and roasted potatoes but that is the closest concession I will make,” he murmured, passing an apron over to Will as he instructed him to wash his hands and dice the sweet potatoes.

~x~

The absurdity of the morning eased when they sat down to eat, the surreal fog he had been in receding to reveal the bleak and glaring reality. He was sitting across from a serial killer, and though it was a routine they had performed many times- preparing and cooking a meal, sitting down to eat it over conversations that felt like loading a gun- it seemed different now. An ease to it almost, all pretenses gone as all the cards were laid flat on the table between them. The veneer of cooperation they each possessed in their attempts manipulate the other was gone now, replaced by an authenticity that was frightening in its intimacy.

Will shifted with discomfort, reaching a hand to push his glasses up his nose only to remember he had not brought them with him. His nose felt their phantom presence, and his fingers fell to the surface of the table, drumming anxiously.

“Why are you so nervous, Will?” Lecter asked.

A huff of laughter fell from his lips. “It feels like a normal response. Being nervous. Maybe you’re unaffected by it but I don’t often plan murders and then sit down to breakfast hours later.”

Lecter considered him a moment. “Are you having any doubts?”

He hadn’t finished asking the question before Will was shaking his head, turning his attention back to his plate. He plucked the tines of his fork into some crisp potatoes and sausage. “I just...nothing’s processed yet, I think. It’s hard to believe it will...that it’s going to finally happen.” He had thought of the moment for so long, a thousand different ways. A thousand different angles of the knife as it reflected a harsh, white light. A thousand different expressions of terror flitting over the man’s face, the dawning realization as he stood in the shadow of a monster he helped create. It was overwhelming to consider all the possibilities set before him, all the different fantasies he could make a reality and the pressure to choose the one that would be _right._ That would satisfy him because it was his one and only opportunity.

He tried not to let his thoughts spiral, not to let emotions surge through him the way they had before. It was a hard thing to grasp hold of, guilt digging teeth into him only for righteous anger to swipe back at it. Back and forth they warred within him, each fighting for a dominance Will felt neither would achieve.

Wolves, clawing and howling and they would eat him in their quest to eat the other.

“I believe I know the answer to this question,” Lecter started, cutting the edge of his fork through the soft yolk of his egg. Will wondered if it was calculated, making a meal that required no knives to eat. “But would you like to talk about it?”

Will snorted, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth and chewing slowly. It was too big a bite in his haste to keep his lips sealed, and he had to roll the food under his teeth so as to not choke. When he swallowed, he took a sip of water, changing the subject to something that felt less dangerous than his thoughts. Less combustible.

“How are we going to get him? Do you have...like a system?” he flinched at the question, once more struggling to reconcile the man with the monster. He tried to stamp down his hysteria- there were only so many breakdowns he would allow himself to have before it would feel too pathetic.

“I’ll get him,” Lecter corrected. “You’ll stay here.”

Will blinked. “Here?”

His head swiveled around, understanding crashing into him. “You have a room where you do it,” he said, glancing around with renewed interest at the house. As if searching for the seams in the wall, a bookcase with an oddly worn book.

“Yes,” Lecter answered, matter-of-factly. Then, almost wistfully, he added, “would you like to see it?”

He furrowed his brow. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

A grin followed the slow shake of his head. “Not at all. I think you’re wondrously perceptive.”

He blanched under the praise which sounded too sincere for his liking, and he once more shoveled food into his mouth. He sputtered- almost choking- when Lecter added, “Though I should warn you, I already have a guest.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. He had said it himself, hadn’t he? The Ripper killed in sounders of three. The first was the angel, and Will had claimed the second for his own. There would be a third- would _need_ to be a third, a compulsion that Lecter might say he was in control of but Will would know better. Compelled by the number to round out his kills and masterpieces. A perversion of the holy trinity, a mockery of the heavens.

Lecter was hosting his next kill- beside them, above them or below them, stowed away like out-of-season decorations. He was here in this house and Will was aware of the precarious moment he found himself in. It was a test. Lecter was testing his resolve and committal by dangling the knowledge before him, practically daring him to run for the kitchen and knife block. Daring him to call the police.

He could save them- or try to at least. Save them from a torturous death that would be slow and cruel and brutal. Forsake his own desire to lend the same death to another he considered deserving of it to save someone who was not.

It was a selfish thing he knew, allowing Lecter to walk free. Allowing him to roam and hunt and slaughter as many innocent people as his greedy hands could catch, all for his selfish want to see another man dead. He felt complicit, hands stained with blood. Guilty by association, half-responsible for every man and woman that Lecter would kill from this moment onward.

His silence was violence in its own right; was he truly prepared to revel in it, sliver his soul until it was unrecognizable to seek his own revenge?

They were blurring in his mind, indistinguishable. All of Lecter’s crimes becoming his own when he only wanted the burden of one.

But he wanted it more than he wanted anything else.

Lecter was watching him, waiting for the slightest, threatening twitch of a muscle. Waiting for Will to _regret_ and strike and preparing to strike back.

Will cleared his throat, trying to ignore the pitiful, dying wail of his conscience as he stabbed a piece of sausage with his fork. “I’d hate to intrude. We can keep it a surprise.”

Lecter seemed pleased, a tension releasing from his muscles as he sat back in his chair, taking another bite of food. “Very well.” He chewed thoughtfully, sipping his water before saying, “I’ve been considering the technicalities. I think it’s best if you stay here, an extra forensic countermeasure. In the off chance that you do come under suspicion, it will be best to eliminate any chance of them finding evidence. They won’t have enough to warrant my home, so that is where you’ll stay. Does that work for you?”

The question was casual, as if Lecter was asking him what dinner option he would prefer. He nodded. There was a part of him that wanted to be there for the abduction, a morbidly curious part that wanted to see Lecter on the hunt. See the startling surprise and fear in Sutcliffe’s eyes from beginning all the way until it was replaced by nothing at all in his death- but he was right. If Will’s goal was to avoid capture, it was best to stay in a controlled space that could be thoroughly cleaned and locked away.

“So, what exactly will I do? Aside from the actual killing,” he asked. It seemed skewed, the amount of effort Lecter was exerting versus Will. All the hard and dangerous work only to allow Will to have the pleasure of his kill. It was- as far as psychopaths were concerned- a generous gesture and Will swallowed thickly as he remembered the feel of the wooden floor beneath his knees and the warmth under his palm.

Surely, there had to be something else Lecter was hoping to glean. Something else he would want from Will in exchange for taking his kill.

“You’ll be doing plenty,” Lecter said dismissively, hand flourishing in a wave. “I still have some details to fine-tune, but I will need your help with some aspects of it. And you already have enough to consider with how you’d like to do it.” He blinked, lowering his fork as if reconsidering his bite. “Do you have any ideas for the tableau you’d like to create?”

Will licked his lips, eyes darting nervously around the room. “No, I didn’t...I didn’t really think that far,” he said, but now it was all he could think of, vivid imagination calling forward suspended limbs and flayed skin. Like the pages of a sketchbook, his own mind was filled with the sort of art he could create with such a unique medium and he swallowed back his anticipation and told himself it was bile.

“You don’t have to if it’s too much. I can take care of that,” Lecter offered, and Will shook his head, hoping it didn’t seem too earnest.

“No, I can do that,” he said softly, dutifully ignoring the indiscernible expression Lecter offered him.

They sat in silence, made uncomfortable but how comfortable it was. When Lecter spoke next, it was to his food instead of Will, gaze cast downward as he said, “There is one more thing I’d like you to consider.” Will said nothing, brow raised as he waited for Lecter to finish. “I’d like you to tell me what your favorite meal is.”

He laughed, dragging a fork through his food. “Is that part of your ritual? A victory meal or something?”

Lecter turned to him finally, eyes staring at Will. Carefully guarded yet shining in mirth, a glint to them that had invaded and warmed the irises all morning, delighting in the openness between them. At being seen the way he always wanted. His lips tilted into a slim specter of a smile, a slit revealing what seemed like too-many teeth as he said, “Something of the sort, yes.”

Will placed a bite on his tongue as he considered the words, the heavy and loaded weight of them. The careful enunciation, the saccharine sweetness that seemed like a sharp antithesis to their meaning. His jaw slowed, his chews becoming mechanical as he blinked back the image of the hollowed-out angel, ribs and organ cleared to reveal the ivory bones nestled in muscle from behind.

He recalled the feel of greasy fat beneath his fingernails as he dragged them down a cut of meat. _‘All the flavor, none of the guilt,’_ he had mused on that first cooking lesson in the kitchen like a morgue, Lecter quick to assure him that he never felt guilt for his meals.

Raw steak chewed beneath the crowns of his teeth.

Tongue searching for the peculiar taste. _Like pork. But not as sweet._

His chair screeched, grating across the floor as he flung himself from it, making it only two steps before he stumbled, vomiting on the hearth behind him. Before the twisted bones and the portrait of Leda and the Swan.

_Not like chicken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever think in Season 2, after Will realized Hannibal was a cannibal, he just had a moment where he sat there while an 80’s style montage played in his head of all the fucking puns he made? Because I think about it every day of my life. Also, Hannibal is a coward, potato chips on eggs are delicious, he’s just a bitch.
> 
> Next chapter; Hannibal, impossibly calm in the face of imminent death, deals with something that might finally be too much for him- A teenager going scorched earth. RIP.


	21. Regurgitate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops.
> 
> Some crazy shit happened at work and I was working a lot. The good news (for me) is I got the promotion! Here's my apology for the delay in the form of an over 8,000-word update.

**Chapter Twenty: Regurgitate**

Will knelt beside the fireplace, a hand bracing himself against the smooth slate tiles, cool beneath his hand. His shoulders shook with the strain of his retching, the sour taste of sick burning his esophagus and curdling on his tongue. The muscles in his stomach contracted, pulling taut and he heaved breaths between the constriction of his throat, between the regurgitation that turned to foul-smelling bile when there was nothing left.

His hand was trembling, a thin sheen of sweat slicked along his brow, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sleeve pulled over his knuckle.

A palm smoothed over his back and he startled, turning to find Lecter crouched beside him, arm extended as he thrust a glass of water towards Will. “You’ve had an emotional last few hours. It’s only natural to experience physical dist-”

His sentence came to a clipped end when Will instinctively reached for the glass and tossed the contents at Lecter’s face, watching as the man blinked rapidly. Water droplets clung to his lashes and slipped down the harsh hollow of his cheek, the wisps of hair that brushed his brow now drenched and clinging to his skin.

Will considered, for only a half-second before coming to his senses, slapping the glass against his face as well, watching as the crystal shattered and shards punctured his flesh. He settled instead for tossing it into the fireplace before him, watching as it burst against the charcoal coated tiles and fell in fragments to the warped wood and ash below. “Emotional? You think I threw up because I’m being _emotional?_ ”

The hysteria he tried to keep bottled up was foaming over now, risen from him like the breakfast that sat in a half-digested clump at his feet. Chunks of masticated sausage visible and a new wave of sick overcame him, compelling him to stand and move as far away from the man. He rose on unsteady feet, shuffling back until he was standing at the end of the table, hands gripping the back of a chair. “You’re eating them, aren’t you?” he asked, the words gurgling from between his saliva thick lips, spit flying like venom as he added, “You’ve been feeding them to me this whole time!”

Lecter was poised as he mirrored Will, calm and controlled while Will was erratic, near-feral with the energy that set his nerves ablaze. He stood, stepped around the opposite end of the table until he was directly across from Will, his own hands resting on the back of a chair. “You’ve never complained about my cooking before,” was all he said, lips upturned in the subtle grin of his- microexpressions encompassing the full range of his emotions. Ever so controlled that even his face obeyed his command, a mask of neutrality.

He was pleased that Will discerned the riddle within his words, _pleased_ that Will understood what he was saying in the spaces between the syllables.

It made rage sweep through Will, a heady and intoxicating brew as it mingled with nausea and indignation. The chair clattered as Will trembled, knuckles white as he held the seat in his grasp. Moments flashed before him, memories that were once unremarkable made vivid and bright, like the scenes of a movie that revealed the killer in hidden clues and coy innuendos. The slight lean Lecter did every time they sat down to eat, shifting his weight forward and raising his chin as he watched Will place the first bite on his tongue with twinkling eyes. It was no longer the gesture of a passionate cook eager to see others enjoy his work, but something far more crooked and rotten. Voyeuristic. Delighting in the way others indulged in something taboo all while holding themselves to an elevated status, believing themselves good and discerning individuals all while eating the tortured remains of the dead. The murdered.

Even the invitation from their first meeting, when Will had been so surprised that the man offered him a place at his table that he felt compelled to say yes. Curiosity taking over his general distaste for social niceties, curious to the sort of man that felt safe enough to invite the sort of patient into his home.

It had been a game.

It was never a friendly gesture.

It was insidious.

A fresh round of sick curdled in his stomach and he grimaced, strained his throat in the hopes of keeping it down. But it was soon replaced, disjointed with horror when realization dawned on him, eyes blinking in thought.

“But you...you only kill every other year...it can’t all have been..” he stammered, dread creeping into him. He had underestimated Hannibal Lecter.

He knew he was a killer. A sadist. A mutilator. A ghost who killed and vanished without a trace.

He knew all these things, understood that he was selling his soul and himself to the man the moment he made the phone call to lure Lecter, fake tears thick in his voice. And yet, it was still an underestimation of exactly what he was.

“The Ripper kills every other year, yes,” he answered, head inclining forward as he watched Will chew the words, roll them around his tongue and digest them. He watched him eat the riddle with the same rapt attention he watched him eat the meat of his kills and Will tried not to step back, tried not to let his fear slant his voice.

“And when you’re not the Ripper? How often do you kill then?”

Lecter considered him, beads of water still settled on his skin, mirroring the sweat that sat ever-present on Will’s own face, lips tasting of vomit and salt. His grin widened marginally, just enough the sharpened tips his teeth were revealed between thin lips. “Enough to keep my pantries full.”

It was a mistake to see Lecter as the Chesapeake Ripper, the wholeness of his identity. A category he could label and set on a shelf with the assumption that it was the totality of the man. The Ripper was only a facet of him, a mask he wore between several others- how many others? How many different ways was the FBI looking for him? How many different case files and teams were dedicated to him and his crimes and not once realizing that one man accounted for the whole filing cabinet?

Will swallowed, his mouth dry.

It was a mistake.

He had made a mistake.

He allowed the literal devil to walk free so he could condemn one lowly monster. It wasn’t just selfish, it was monstrous. Complicit wasn’t the word, didn’t properly ascribe the level of blood that he waded into, the amount of flesh beneath his nails. He was an unwilling accomplice to a man that killed with all the jurisdiction of _grocery shopping_.

An errand. Hunting and murdering others had become a chore to him so he found his decadent and sinful delights elsewhere- on the tongues of others who ate the flesh he set before them, twisting and bending Will into the person he wanted him to be. A god creating others in his image- the image of a killer.

It made his temper flare, even if the more logical, reasonable part of him knew better than to react so impulsively- he had no idea what Lecter was capable of. Despite knowing better he couldn’t stop himself, striding several seats down until he reached his half-consumed plate and grabbing it, tossing it with a grunt at Lecter's head.

Lecter shifted to the side- a smooth and fluid motion as if it was a choreographed dance- and watched as the dish fell to the floor with a sharp, high-pitched break. Pieces of the china dish scattered over the floor, eggs, and potatoes and _sausage_ splatting like an ink splot.

“That’s no way to treat someone’s belongings,” Lecter chided, though the words were lilted. _Playful_.

He was having _fun._

Any control he might have had on himself snapped at the revelation, and he snarled, slamming an angry fist down on the table so the silverware clattered noisily, water sloshing from the remaining cup on the table. “You care more about your ugly _things_ than you do me, don’t you? Or anyone else?” he said, correcting himself when he heard the words that sounded delusional when said aloud, as if he were special. As if he had ever been anything more than a toy to wind up and see which way he went.

He grabbed the centerpiece next- an _ugly_ black platter filled with matte gray and white Christmas baubles- and tossed it behind him. He no longer cared about hurting Lecter- it would only delight the man further, a perverse indulgence of the sight of violence, be it his own or directed towards him. His only desire was to destroy as many of the precious ornaments the man held so dear, caressing them with what meager love his pathetic heart could manage.

The tray was not satisfying- the glass balls shattered nicely but the tray was a dull thud as it cracked once in half- and he reached for Lecter’s dish next, stretching across the table.

“Will, you’re acting like a child-”

“Imagine that!” he yelled, voice pitched in mania, and he punctuated the declaration with the sound of another plate breaking, fragments falling like snow to the ground. Pieces of food sat in the beds of the wall planters, and for a moment he thought that even the herbs might know the taste of human flesh, the soil rich with compost.

The whole house was tainted. Bricks like blood covered teeth. Carnivorous.

“You’re being a brat, then,” Lecter corrected. “And a hypocrite.”

Will’s brows rose so high they might have vanished entirely. “A hypocrite? Oh, this should be good,” he said with a biting laugh. “Please, _Doctor._ Tell me about my hypocrisy.”

“Only moments earlier you were not just content but delighted to plan a murder over the very meal you’ve now so kindly used to redecorate my dining room. Why is my delight so much more wrong than yours?” he reasoned, and Will balked, cheeks staining red as he stammered for an answer.

“It’s _different_ ,” was all he managed, the words snarled in his defense. “And if I had known what the meal was-”

“You would have what, Will?” he interrupted, pulling away from the head of the table and rounding on the younger boy. It was a sudden change, and Will stumbled backward from the sight of Hannibal Lecter the _hunter_ , the _killer_ , stalking towards him. “Politely turned the meal down? Called off our deal altogether and walk away as if nothing happened?”

‘ _I should kill him,’_ Will thought, the idea striking him with such conviction that it made him tingle with anticipation instead of disgust at his own traitorous brain. It was a vindictive thought, the sort of things he tried to shove desperately away from his mind. But he found comfort in the idea, a quiet sense of peace that he could end his depravity. The judge, jury, and executioner to a man deserving of all three but unlikely to ever face any of them.

Lecter loomed over him, each step forward he took causing Will to step backward until Will’s back pushed against a wall and his eyes widened. He twisted, intending to leap to the side so there was someplace to run, but Lecter was faster and he grunted as hands gripped each shoulder and shoved him against the wall, holding him firmly in place.

“You’re no angel, Will. You don’t get to use innocence and moral superiority as armor when I can see the look in your eyes at the thought of the wickedness you can do. You berate and deride me my indulgences yet justify your own. Crafting yourself into something righteous, doling out justice in order to feel better about the saliva pooling behind your teeth at the thought of ripping another man open,” he spoke, a husk to his words that nearly made Will whimper before catching it, teeth clamping down on the noise. He felt _small_ , sinking under the shadow of Lecter as he stood before him. He wasn’t much taller than him- less than half a head at most- but the gap seemed insurmountable then, as if he were a towering beast and Will a child cowering beneath him.

He swallowed thickly, chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm. “It’s different,” he said again, but the word came out a half-believed whine. “Sutcliffe _deserves-”_

“I’m not denying that,” Lecter said, his tone a precarious balance between soft and harsh. “And he will get what he deserves so long as I know I can trust you. Tell me, Will...have you devised a new plan? Use me to take the burden and responsibility of your kill before killing me yourself? Claiming defense to the world and anyone who would listen? Shrouding yourself once more in sheepskin clothes? Is that what you’re considering?”

Will winced. “No!”

_Yes._

Lecter’s eyes danced over his face, the bourbon color darkened by shadows and appearing maroon in the low light. Or perhaps it was a trick of the eye, Will imbuing him with devilish features to match the vision of him forming in his head. “I don’t believe you,” he said simply, almost sorrowful and Will squeezed his eyes shut, stomach contracted as he braced himself for the pierce of a blade.

It never came, though, and when he opened his eyes it was to see Lecter only inches from his face, the tip of his nose nearly brushing against his own and he was aware of too many things at once. Aware of the scent of his breath, putrid with sick. Aware of the sweat clinging to his upper lip and brow. Aware of the exhalations fanning against his lips, air regurgitated between them. “I’m still willing to help you, Will. But I promise you, whatever trap you set for me will be the very same one you yourself will stumble over,” he began, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver against Will’s spine, the knobs of his bones knocking painfully against the wall as he tried to squirm away. “Be it my dining table, a grave or a prison cell, understand that wherever you try to send me, you will find yourself on the opposite aisle, alongside me. You underestimated me once. Don’t do it again.”

He believed him, something primal stirring in his chest that awakened at the danger before him. He was certain without really knowing why that Lecter would make good on his threat. The bars of a prison cell or even the mahogany lid of a coffin wouldn’t keep him away from Will until his threat was realized. Until they were both so entrenched in each other’s undoing that Will wouldn’t be able to tell where one began and the other ended.

He nodded, a stiff motion.

Lecter narrowed his eyes as he met Will’s gaze, a hand sliding from Will’s shoulder to rest against his cheek, thumb softly caressing the sun freckles beneath his eyes. “If I suspect for even a moment that your intent is to turn me in or kill me, I’m going to kill your father,” he began, the words a jarring dichotomy to the tender touch, fingers smoothing through Will’s curls as he tangled his hand in the crown of hair. “I will kill him the way a sixteen-year-old would. Hesitant at first, and then eager. Shallow stab wounds getting deeper. Mine will be the last face your father sees before he dies, and you will know the truth. But all the world will know is that a violent and troubled young boy disappeared after killing his father. Never to be found.”

His lips pinched into a thin line, knowing exactly where he would be found. Between the teeth and on the tongue of Lecter’s dinner guests, digesting in the belly beside wine and good conversation.

He would be fed to Doctor Bloom, he realized. A dinner shared between two friends, two colleagues bemoaning their failure.

_It’s what he would do if he were Lecter._

“You’re wrong,” Will said, clearing his throat when the words came out too hoarse for his liking. Lecter seemed doubtful, raising a brow as if to say _Was I now?_ “When I finally do kill...it won’t be hesitant.”

It was a promise as much as it was a threat, but Lecter’s eyes glimmered at the words and he settled back on his heels, moving away from Will and the stale air passed back and forth. With a sharp and painful snap of his wrist, Lecter ripped his hand away, a fistful of dark brown curls clutched in his grasp. “You’re not the only one who likes a contingency plan,” he mused, watching as Will rubbed at the sore spot of his head.

He pocketed the hair, turning his back on Will as he began to silently clean up the mess left in the teenager’s rampage. It was odd, how easily he could switch between roles, and Will shifted his weight side to side, unsure of what to do with himself. He had made a deal with the devil.

He should have known it would come at a price.

The tray and Christmas baubles were balanced in Lecter’s hands, and he set them on the table before turning to the shattered plate by the living herb wall- a discarded pile of shards and glass and once more it felt like a test.

One that Will would pass because he knew better now, hands sliding into his pockets to resist the temptation of the jagged edge. He imagined the ornament slicing into Lecter’s neck, arterial blood dark as it sprayed against the dining table and its place settings and it seemed fitting. Meals served of blood and bones and flesh.

He felt sick with the taste of flesh that sat on his teeth, between his molars. Burrowing into him like cavities.

“Are you going to eat him?” he asked, intrigue coloring the words despite his better want.

Lecter brushed the glass into his palm, spinning on his heel and dropping the plate on the table with the trays and decorations. “It was my intention, yes,” he answered. He carefully brushed his hands of slivers, glancing at Will for the first time since he stepped away to clean the mess. “And I’d recommend you do as well.”

Will snorted. “Some more of your patented therapy?”

Lecter ignored the quip, striding into the kitchen and opening the cupboard that hid his refuse bin, sliding it out of place. “There’s power in consumption. Many societies ate those they defeated in battle as a way to celebrate their victory. Some societies believed consumption of another would allow them to become the consumed, borrowing their attributes. I think you will find some closure in it, and there’s something poetic to it, isn’t there?” he hummed thoughtfully as if discussing the delicate notes of Bach or Mozart, traipsing into the dining room with the bin and setting it down beside the table. He swept a clothed arm across the glass fragments and slid them into the bin with the riotous sound of more glass shattering. “To see his own gluttony mirrored in his death, to consume him in turn.”

Will shifted where he stood, tucking himself into the corner where the two walls met and leaning in the angle- sinking inward. The conversation was headed somewhere dangerous, a too-bright room he did not wish to go and he tucked his sleeves into his palm and took a steadying breath. “I’m not a cannibal,” he said. Though, he supposed it wasn’t technically true. Willing or not- aware or not- he still sat at Death’s banquet, rolling meat between his teeth. The thought made his stomach roil, a renewed torrent of anger at Lecter. It felt like a violation.

“It’s only cannibalism between two equals,” he answered with a soft shrug of his shoulders. “You and him are not equals.”

Will narrowed his eyes at him. “No, but you and him are.” Lecter said nothing, though he did offer what was as close to quizzical a glance as the man was capable of, his face never belying the emotions beneath. “I want him dead more than I want you dead. But you’re not much better than him.”

It was a cruel thing to say- and he intended it as such. Lecter called Sutcliffe a _pig._ He called all of them pigs, elevating himself above them and degrading them for their abhorrent behavior. It was an insult in its own right to be compared to one such pig, to have the parallels drawn between him and someone he saw only as swine for slaughter, a filet of protein to stretch across his plate. And there was a vindictive joy in the sight of his shoulder’s stiffening, the arch of his brow becoming firmer as he turned once more to Will, lips pursed at the crude and biting remark.

The words tasted dangerous, and he savored it. The small stroke of rebellion.

“I am nothing like him,” Lecter said, restrained enough to keep the hiss from his tone but not enough so to hide his want for it.

Will frowned, lips tugging into a wry expression. A mockery of a frown- a play-pretend notion as if feigning his own sadness and confusion. “No, you just used my own illness against me for altruistic reasons, I’m sure. Nothing like him,” he said, a bitter scoff rounding out the words. His lips twitched, words spat from his lips with spittal as he added, “You said it yourself. The reality is, people will always believe _you_ before they believe me. Not the first time I heard that. I’m not stable enough to be believable.”

He didn’t wait for Lecter to respond, turning his gaze away to obscure the emotions that would be too raw, to writ on his face. An expression that felt too much like admission and he grabbed his napkin from the table- a damask fabric one that was soft and plush and made from some luxuriant fabric- and used it clean up his vomit. It soiled the expensive cloth wonderfully, and when the hearth was clean he stomped around the table to toss it in the bin.

The sour taste of sick was still heavy in his mouth, threatening to make him ill all over again- or perhaps he was just ill in general. A sickness running rampant in his veins that made his stomach wrench and his mind feverish. He wondered what sort of diseases could be found in human flesh- if the meat that sat in his belly was fetid and would poison him for the sins he did not mean to commit.

Wasn’t that what Mad-Cow disease was? Bovines falling ill and succumbing to madness after being fed the remains of another? A cycle of violence and disease and feeding? Brain and nervous system deteriorating?

Was there a human equivalent?

“Will-” Lecter started to say, interrupted by the reverberating ring of a doorbell, followed by several desperate and banging knocks against the door. “That’s probably your father,” he said, brushing past the teenager to enter the hall that stretched between them and the foyer. Will followed, arms folded over his chest as he came to a stop at the midway point, recalling the threat Lecter had promised. Imagining his father with stab wounds littering his torso- some hesitant, some eager.

It made the smooth and friendly way that Lecter answered the door all the more unsettling, his mask a picture-perfect thing that hid the true visage well. Pleasantries and niceties were a matter of pretense, and Will wondered if there was anyone in the world the man would truly hesitate to kill or if he viewed the act of destruction as a necessary thing. Gutting the same people he would call his friends if the opportunity or need arose.

Was there anyone he truly cared for?

It was a hollow thought, and instead of inspiring the fear it should have, it brought with it only bleakness. Something like pity that wasn’t quite so because pity and Lecter were not concepts that existed together. But there was something he could not name settling in him at the thought, a sort of sadness that no one was enough to keep his hunger at bay.

“William, a pleasure to see you as always. Though I think I speak for both of us when I say I wish the circumstances were better,” Lecter said, stepping aside to allow William entrance into the home, his eyes- glossy with exhaustion- found Will immediately, lips pressing into a stern line.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he said gruffly, ignoring Lecter as he stepped further into the home, gray sludge and snow trailing behind him. He was dressed in his pajamas still, winter boots pulled over sweat pants and his jacket over a too-thin cotton shirt. He probably awoke on the tail end of Lecter’s phone call, listening to the voicemail several times before understanding came to him and he jumped from the bed in a combination of panic and anger. “Do you have any idea what could have happened if you were caught? What if you got into an accident? You could have killed someone! Yourself!”

Lecter stepped between them, extending a hand to clasp it firmly on William’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture- the same hand that had pressed Will against a wall, slid along his face and into his hair before ripping out his contingency plan. “Thankfully, he did not. And I don’t believe he was aware of what he was doing.”

William scoffed. “He wasn’t aware of what he was doing when he what? Stole the keys? Drove an hour across state lines?”

“I think he was in a fugue state, and it is not uncommon for sufferers of it to travel unexpectedly and have no recollection of the hours- in some cases, months- of lost time,” Lecter reasoned, the lie poised so readily on his tongue that William was unable to resist the pull of it, shoulders slipping with the suggestion. Anger seeping from him in increments.

Eyes slunk towards Will once more before settling back on the doctor. “So, what? Now I have to worry about him driving all across the country in the middle of the night?” he asked, swallowing thickly. He tried to make the question a joke, infusing his concern with humor but the warmth would not come. He was finding it harder and harder to be dismissive of Will’s health, to make light of all the way’s his son was falling apart.

“Let’s discuss this in the parlor,” Lecter said, glancing once at the trail of melting snow on the floor of his foyer as he added, “feel free to make yourself comfortable. May I take your coat? Shoes?”

William kept his coat on but mumbled an embarrassed apology as he kicked his shoes off. Will slid past them, slipping into the parlor and sitting on the sofa, back stiff and arms still folded over his chest. He scowled when Lecter opted to sit beside him instead of in one of the armchairs opposite the couch, reminded once more of the deal they struck between them. A promise with an uncertain but bitter end that trapped Will within the confines of accomplice for the too many crimes committed by his hand.

There was probably blood permanently embedded beneath his fingernails.

William sat in the armchair, elbows resting on his knees and chin slotting into a palm as he sighed, heavily and wearily and looking older than Will ever remembered him looking.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he admitted in a mumble, and the words made Will’s chest clench, glancing away to stare at the room once more. There was a small Christmas tree set on a table, and even that looked sinister. It wasn’t the normal sort of artificial tree with plastic fir leaves, forest green, and swathed with tinsel and twinkling lights. It was a modern sculpture, branches replaced with black sloping horns that tapered into a cone shape, affixed with the muted color ornaments- an occasional burst of crimson.

“I admit to a growing concern myself,” Lecter said with a nod, considering Will from the periphery of his eye for a moment before adding, “I understand you have plans for overnight delivery in a few days. I’m not certain I think it’s best to leave Will for such a long time. I believe he poses a considerable risk to himself.”

William deflated, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “I know but I- I don’t know what to do besides taking him with me. But I can’t...I can’t do that all the time. Hell, he’s supposed to be getting ready for college soon. What sort of college student needs to be supervised overnight?”

It seemed a generous thought; seeing Will in college and not shuffling aimlessly around the halls of a hospital, senses numbed by the drugs. More generous still considering Chilton’s prediction that set Will behind the iron bars of a prison, a jumpsuit his uniform instead of the uniform of the mentally unwell; loose pajama pants and sweats, soft shirts. Nothing with ties or metal. It was a bleak image, but neither seemed to sit well with Will. He never envisioned himself in the future, saw the paths stretched before him with any real possibility.

It was always too disconcerting, too obscure a thought.

He supposed prison was the one he settled on more often than not, finding a preference to the thin mattress and exposed toilets.

Inmates were allowed to deny access to doctors unaffiliated with the prison. Hospital patients deemed too unstable or too young to be given the privilege of deciding their own treatment? They were pushed and ushered by the whims of others. And Sutcliffe was a respected doctor in his field, always finding himself the head of Will’s treatment team in any hospital he would find himself locked in.

His heart raced when Lecter suggested hospitalizing him, even though he knew it was only to endear William to the true option. To make the thought of leaving his son to be watched overnight more palatable, less corrosive then dragging Will into the hospital, a needle and straps required to keep him soft enough for admission.

“It’s Christmas,” William said with a wince, glancing furtively in Will’s direction. “I...I don’t like the idea of hospitalizing him ever, but Christmas?”

“I understand the timing is inconvenient, but Will’s health and safety are a priority. And at this rate, he can’t be left alone for more than a few hours,” Lecter said, pausing for long enough that panic and betrayal fluttered behind Will’s chest, fear that he would remand him to a hospital and leave him to wilt within the clinical walls. “Perhaps I can offer an alternative. It’s only one night you’ll be away, and I have a guest bedroom that sees little use. If you don’t find the suggestion too inappropriate, Will could spend the night here and I can supervise him. It’s possible even that the unfamiliar layout will make his sleepwalking trips a little shorter when he runs into a wall that isn’t supposed to be there.” He chuckled softly at the quip, leaning back on the couch.

Will released the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, seeing two sets of eyes turn to him for only a second at the loud exhalation.

William furrowed his brow, spine straightening as he sat up, palms rubbing over his thigh. “I...can't ask that of you. You’re his psychiatrist, not his nanny.” He ignored the scoff Will gave, adding, “and I’m not even sure Will would be comfortable with that arrangement.”

“We can ask him,” Lecter said, tipping his head in Will’s direction. He turned to Will, eyes flashing in a warning. Challenging Will to back down from the decision, daring him to force his hand on his promise to kill his father and frame Will. To drag him with him to prison or a grave and Will was wondering when it began; the entanglement they found themselves in. If it began the moment Will lured Lecter to his office with a threat of his own hot on his tongue or if it began earlier. The moment he decided to stalk the man, setting his snares and lying in wait.

Or maybe it had begun long before all of that. Begun the moment he sat on the couch with a book in his hands, his dad answering the phone and turning to him with a scowl when he realized Will lied about his appointment being canceled.

His instinct to avoid Lecter had been right, it seemed. Like animals fleeing hours before a storm, sensing the shifting of plates beneath their feet and smelling the scent of danger thick in the air. He should have listened to it.

And yet, he was glad he didn’t. For all the uncertainty of dealing with a man- _a devil_ \- such as Lecter, all the indignation at having been plied and fed human flesh and treated like a toy by a bored and haphazard toddler- he was pleased to find himself in this moment. The taste of the sausage still sat in the crowns of his teeth beneath the tang of vomit and his stomach lurched at the thought of all the digested meals. He should have been horrified and repulsed but he wasn’t, knowing he would change nothing if it lead him to this same fixed point.

He made a deal with the devil, condemning himself to hell in the process- forever shackled to a man who would manipulate the whole world to drag Will down in whatever vengeance he tried to seek. But he would get to kill Sutcliffe.

His fingers twitched with the need and maybe Lecter was right. He was a hypocrite because a shiver trembled down his spine in anticipation and he did in fact feel saliva pool behind his teeth.

“I’d prefer it to a hospital,” he relented, sounding put out by the idea but feeling anything but. He would kill Sutcliffe.

And he wouldn’t hesitate.

~x~

The snow was sludge beneath his feet, half-melted as it made wet plopping sounds with each step. Lecter walked the two Grahams to the truck, opening the door for Will and bending down to move some loose mail from the seat, slipping the gun from his pocket and under the seat as he promised. He moved back, allowing Will to climb inside and he offered a contented grin- like a cat dropping the half-chewed corpse of a bird at its owner’s feet- before closing the door.

The world was muffled as his dad stood outside for a moment longer, talking to Lecter and rubbing a hand down his face. There was an occasional glance spared in Will’s direction, and his temper flared at the being so blatantly discussed. After a few drawn-out minutes, William turned, extending a finger out to Will in a gesture bidding him to hold on as the two men turned back into the house.

He sat straighter in his seat, head pressed as far back as the headrest would allow. His fingertips drummed against his thighs, licking his lips anxiously as he waited for his dad to reappear. It was hard to forget the threat Lecter made- the image of his dad with blood dampening his shirt, holes piercing through his abdomen- and his hands shook as he reached for the seat belt, ready to bolt into the house.

He was halfway out of the truck when the front door opened, his dad walking down the path once more and his shoulders sagged with relief.

“What are you doing? Get back in the truck,” William said, voice teetering between commanding and weary, strained through a sigh.

“Why’d you go back in?” he asked, settling into the seat as his dad sat beside him, sliding his keys into the ignition. He passed a yellow slip of paper over the console, Will squinting his eyes as he tried to read the print without his glasses.

“It’s a prescription,” William said, catching sight of Will’s struggle as he turned the keys and the engine roared to life. “Something he thinks might help.”

“I thought only my primary should handle my medication,” Will mumbled, not an objection so much as it was a question. Lecter was writing him prescriptions now? He considered slipping his phone out of his pocket and researching the drug- as if Lecter might somehow find a way to poison him through a pharmacy.

William shrugged. “I mentioned that I would try to move up your next appointment with Donald to sometime this week and he insisted on writing one. Said something about a dinner party where he would let Donald know about it so we didn’t have to change our schedules.”

“Oh,” was all Will said, slipping the prescription into his pocket. It was an oddly protective thing to do, an opposition to the man he had seen before his dad slammed a fist to the door and made the mask slip back in place. His shoulders throbbed with the phantom touch of being pinned to a will, head a dull ache from where his curls were ripped from the root. And the words and their threat shimmered like a veil in his head, echoing around the vast and dark cavern of his thoughts.

Odd that the man could present such a duality, tender caresses smoothing over his fevered cheeks before sharply yanking on his hair; threatening Will with a cell and a coffin before offering him protection in the form of a small yellow piece of paper, his neat handwriting filling the square with gracefully arched letters that looked strange with the clinical name of the pharmaceutical.

But, perhaps it wasn’t so strange, he realized, considering the hands at his shoulders once more. That even as Lecter lowered his head so their noses might brush together, he canted his body at a safe distance- only allowing him a small intrusion into Will’s space. Enough to intimidate, but not to extract fear or misinterpretation.

He sighed, skewing his eyes shut and willing his thoughts to turn away from Lecter. It was a confusing and tangled mess, like the string of Christmas lights sitting on the floor in a clump because he and his dad gave up trying to pull each bulb free. It was too much effort for something that felt forced, both of them silently agreeing to leave the tree bare and untrimmed this year. One could only set a stage so much, he supposed.

He turned his head to look at his dad, his profile silhouetted against the bright sun as it reflected off the snow, casting a yellow halo on the world. Soon it would all melt, leaving muddied sludge and damp dead grass behind but for now, it was a pretty sight. A bright and clear winter morning.

“Dad, I’m really-” he started to say, but the words fell short when his dad rose a hand and sliced it in the air between them, the other gripping the steering wheel too tight.

“Don’t, Will. Just...don’t,” he said, terse and strained as he refused to so much as even look at his son. “Let’s just...get home. As quietly as we can.”

Will closed his mouth, nodding slowly. He shifted his gaze back to the window, watching the world pass him by. It was a long drive, and within moments he found himself falling asleep, the barrel of the gun knocking the heel of his boots and the taste of flesh and vomit still thick on his tongue.

~x~

“Oh!” Alana called out excitedly, waving the blade of her knife in the air and wagging it as though she were the conductor of the concert, the charging notes to the overture from the _Le Nozze di Figaro_ by Mozart shifting through the air. “I know this one!”

Hannibal offered her an indulgent smile, eyes crinkling with humor as she set the knife down and brought the glass of her special brew to her lips, sipping it with a hum. She was set up on the rolling prep station she used when she cooked with him, two counters creating a divide between them that felt like a canyon now that he had grown used to working side by side with Will, passing utensils between them instead of having a set of their own.

He grinned when he had opened the door to her that evening; when she furrowed her brow in concern and brushed her fingertips against the bruise blooming across his forehead; the tip of his nose and one nostril a charming shade of violet. She had asked what happened, her voice low in her fretting, and he had satisfied her with a lie about slipping on ice.

It had so far been the highlight of the night, his patience and attention waning faster than usual. It was droll in comparison to his morning, the early hours of the day marked by the circle of a gun only inches from his gaze and the shatter of glass as Will stormed through the dining room like a hellion, his righteous anger spurring him to act on his instinct for once instead of locking it behind the facade of his awkward demeanor. He didn’t think one person could be so enthralling, an unpredictable thing that metamorphosed faster than Hannibal could keep up with, layers of multiple chrysalises peeling away to reveal something new yet equally delightful.

He wished he could bottle it, the euphoria of watching Will unfurl before him. A tonic he could inebriate himself on, the sweetest and most decadent elixir. It was as if there were several beings existing within the one, different personas he summoned and settled in like a costume, dressing appropriately for the occasion. And though there were a few he didn’t care for- one he actively detested and hoped would rid itself from the rotation as swiftly as possible- he enjoyed most of them. Delighted in the fractured pieces that clipped together to reveal the totality of the boy. Like a kaleidoscope, fragments that were so different yet equally as beautiful creating an ever-shifting, ever stunning image.

He had seen more of him than he ever thought existed, and it was an intoxicating delight that sat with him all day. There was the calculated and sharpened thing that he began the evening as, shining like a knife under the light of the fire in his office. The mellowed and thoughtful thing, considering the details of the plan with a glimmer in his eyes and lips that steadfastly resisted the pull into a smile. Then there was the feral one, the snarling and righteous creature that was set loose in his home, his anger and indignation just as illuminating and stunning as everything else had been.

It made the thought of their evening together all the more enticing, curiosity stoking his mind like picking at the embers of a fire. He wondered which Will was the most natural one- the killer instinct that would emerge when a knife was set in his palm and the man of his nightmares and fantasies was spread out prone before him.

Maybe he would be lucky enough to be gifted _another_ Will, a different entity altogether and he was thrumming with anticipation. He was not the sort of person who fell prey to the whims of impatience and the march of a calendar, but he was already bored with the week ahead and wishing the days would hasten.

“All done,” Alana said with a bright grin, setting her hands on the cutting board before her, the small bowls filled with her prepped ingredients.

“Excellent, I’m almost done with the meat,” he said, gesturing to the roulade before him.

She carried the bowls over in a tray, placing it on the counter before standing beside him, a glass of beer raised to her chin. “Such a shame you couldn’t come in today,” she said, tone rich with sarcasm. “I’m surprised Jack let us leave at all. He’s so obsessed with finding the Ripper, I think he’s forgetting we’re only human.”

“My apologies,” he said, knowing she was fishing for the reason behind his _excused_ _emergency_ yet refusing to give it to her. “And I can hardly blame him. The window to catch him will be short before he disappears once more. Each kill brings with it the possibility for evidence, but also the reminder that our time is running out.”

She hummed thoughtfully, sighing into her glass. “There won’t be evidence though, no matter how many bodies. He’s too good.”

‘ _Thank you,’_ he thought bemusedly, his mask slipping into a frown.

“He’s especially frustrated too because it all comes on the heels of the Shrike disappearing and losing that case,” she added, shrugging her shoulders glumly.

“He made a mistake with Elise Nichols,” Hannibal said simply, lowering his eyes in a comforting way. “He panicked and migrated south for winter, but I’m sure our bird of prey will be back when he thinks the coast is clear.”

She huffed out a bitter sounding laugh. “Perfect. One killer who leaves bodies with no evidence and another who only leaves missing person’s reports except for the last one.”

“I take it then nothing came of the forensics report on our angel?” he asked.

She took a long sip of her beer- more of a gulp, really- and set it down with a low thud on the counter. “Let’s not talk shop the rest of the night, okay? I thought this was supposed to be a distraction,” she said, her tone careful to not be too salacious but certainly flirtatious, her intentions clear.

“Of course,” he agreed.

The evening passed comfortably then, and soon Hannibal found himself in the kitchen once more, finishing the final touches on their dessert. A rich hazelnut and chocolate mousse resting atop a bed of ganache. Bright and juicy raspberries rested on the folded twirl of the dessert, and he was carefully dusting the dish with edible gold when Alana entered from the dining room, eyes wide as they caught sight of the dessert.

“Red and gold. Festive,” she remarked with a grin, cheeks flushed with the considerable amount of alcohol she had throughout their time together.

“And hopefully delicious,” he responded as she came around the counter, watching the flakes of gold shimmer beneath the white light of the room. “I appreciate you coming to assist, but if you’ll return to your seat I’ll be-”

His words were swallowed as she spread a palm on his arm, raising on her toes and pressing her lips to his. She was soft and warm, the blush of her skin spreading to him through their kiss, a wet tongue prodding softly at the seams to his own mouth. She tasted like the beer he made especially for her, the bitter taste of hops and tannins mixing with the tang of yeast that obscured the metallic taste of blood wonderfully.

  
She stepped closer to him, her kiss becoming more urgent and needy as her body pressed against the planes of his own. Softness meeting firmness, and he considered wrapping his arms around her and peppering her neck and jaw with wet and sucking kisses just as he planned when he invited her to dinner before realizing how little he truly desired to do so.

It was pleasant enough, and his blood warmed at the feel of her breasts against his broad chest, drinking in the quiet sighs that she pushed from her mouth to his own. But there was an entanglement involved with these sorts of things, expectations that came with vulnerability and though it was once his wish for such an arrangement, he detested the idea of it now. The attentions he would have to offer her in greater measure, the assurances that would be expected between lovers and time spent together now felt like a burden instead of an opportunity and he tried to slow his pull away from her, tried to not make the step backward feel like a slap as they broke apart, eyes blinking up at him.

“I’m truly sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, Alana, but I-” he began, only for her to cut him off with a nervous laugh and a quick, fluttering wave through the air.

“Nope, nope, don’t worry about it,” she said quickly, smiling despite her obvious embarrassment, cheeks red from something other than alcohol now. “I’m sorry. I must have...I guess I just read things wrong. I didn’t..no hard feelings.”

She disappeared into the dining room without another word, Hannibal following soon after. They ate their dessert over muted, stilted conversation, and she did not insist on sitting beside him on the couch with the fire warm on their faces as she often did during their nights together. She was quick to leave, chocolate still smeared on her lips when she said her goodbyes.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's a gay, Alana. Also, a round of applause for the kink discovery of both Hannibal and Will in these last few chapters.
> 
> Both of them, as the other, threatens to kill/manipulates them: Gee, I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me.
> 
> Next up: Will considers his options, Hannibal hosts his dinner party, and Chilton has suspicions.


	22. Choke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since he was a child, there was a too-muchness to his brain that made peace an unfamiliar but yearned for solace. Interaction with others was an impossibility, adopting their habits and their cadences in a way that unsettled his peers at best; inspired their taunts at worst. He found companionship in hobbies; reading fiction and nonfiction alike, fishing with his dad and discovering a passion for building that began with legos and evolved into him leaning over the mechanical mouth of a car as his dad held a hand at his back to keep him steady on the stool. He enjoyed learning how things worked, hard and concrete and unchangeable things that did not sway to emotion but remained firm in reason.
> 
> But even someone as reserved as Will craved the recognition of another. Friendship he dared to call it but he would settle for acquaintances. Someone to share and commiserate with, a sort of love separate from the one his dad offered him because there were so many different types of love and he was starving for the ones denied him.

**Chapter Twenty-One: Choke**

The bank was shrouded in darkness, the first sign that something was amiss as Linda Clark furrowed her brow, keys held in her fist. The lights were a constant in the bank, illuminating the vaults and automatic tellers for the many security cameras that captured each and every angle. She hesitated at the door, shifting the straps of a handbag as she thought better about stepping inside. She was scheduled to open for the day and prepare the kiosks, performing audits for the banking podium before any transactions could be handled.

But it was _dark_ and something in her gut told her there was a reason for it- that the chances of a power outage knocking out their main source of power and their backup generator were unlikely.

She stepped back from the door, calling her bank manager- Peter. He was gruff when he arrived, annoyed to be shirked awake hours earlier than intended when she stood right there, chilled from the cold of a winter’s morning.

“It was probably a power outage, or maybe even just something wrong with the breakers,” Peter muttered as she offered him the keys and he went through the multiple steps of unlocking the building. “And now you’ll be behind,” he added, glancing at his watch.

She pursed her lips, following behind him as they entered the dark building, a hand reaching out and fumbling for the manual switch. It clicked as it was moved up and down, but the lobby remained dark, flooded in shadows.

Peter sighed, patting his pockets as he searched for his phone. “I’ll have to call someone to fix the lights then. We’ll have to delay opening,” he muttered, striding towards his office and leaving Linda alone in the darkened bank.

Locking the doors once more behind them, she used the light from her cellphone to avoid the pointed corners of the counters- the trail of rope that kept the lines neat and concise throughout the day. She entered the office, slipping the bag from her shoulder and heading towards the vault.

Her scream was not immediate, as one might expect when imagining this scenario- stepping into the corridor between the office and vault, light flashing on the form sitting before her. There were several seconds that dragged until they were indistinguishable from minutes or even hours, her eyes following the angles and curves as the light bounced around the hallway like a stage light that did not know which center of the set to rest on. Her brain did not immediately grasp what it was she was seeing, the body sitting cross-legged- skin clammy and nude beneath the blue light. A chain- the links thick and sturdy, the sort one might use for boats or cars or other heavy-weight machinery- was wound around the form, hanging a heavy safe from around his throat like a necklace. A hundred-pound necklace made of iron and stained red.

She did not scream until she caught sight of the heart sitting in the concave shell of the safe, resting in between the crossed legs.

~x~

Will awoke for school on Tuesday morning with only a few minutes to spare, head a heavy fog from the medication Doctor Lecter prescribed but finding the white noise a pleasing change of pace from his normal cacophonous thoughts. He did not dream- nightmares or otherwise. There were no monsters or shadows slipping into his mind while he slumbered and he enjoyed the moment of calm that fell over him as he awoke slowly and blearily, his room darkened from the late rise of the sun in winter.

Ever since he was a child, there was a _too-muchness_ to his brain that made peace an unfamiliar but yearned for solace. Interaction with others was an impossibility, adopting their habits and their cadences in a way that unsettled his peers at best; inspired their taunts at worst. He found companionship in hobbies; reading fiction and nonfiction alike, fishing with his dad and discovering a passion for building that began with legos and evolved into him leaning over the mechanical mouth of a car as his dad held a hand at his back to keep him steady on the stool. He enjoyed learning how things worked, hard and concrete and unchangeable things that did not sway to emotion but remained firm in reason.

But even someone as reserved as Will craved the recognition of another. Friendship he dared to call it but he would settle for acquaintances. Someone to share and commiserate with, a sort of love separate from the one his dad offered him because there were so many different types of love and he was starving for the ones denied him.

He was sent to the psychiatrist at his school back in Louisiana a few times, who embarrassingly tried to hand him pamphlets on making friends as if something that others found so natural could be broken down to a five-step process. As if the only thing standing in Will’s way was not his oddity and the othering that surrounded him but the fact that he just didn’t have the right manual to refer to.

He could read people as easily as he could the mechanics of a boat, but they didn’t often appreciate the astuteness.

William had thought moving would be an opportunity for Will to reinvent himself- not understanding that Will’s tendency to reinvent himself in the image of others was exactly the problem. And instead of Will coming out of his shell in the new environment, he only further retreated. Becoming less and less until he was unrecognizable; as if his brain had purged so many different borrowed personalities it had mistakenly taken his with it. He didn’t read, and he no longer wished to assist his dad in repairing the trucks and boats deposited at their door.

The children in Wolf Trap were no kinder than they had been in Louisiana, and it seemed Will would continue to starve for companionship until one afternoon, shortly after his ninth birthday, when his dad picked him up from school and brought him to a farm belonging to a client of his. Will sank to his knees in the barn, arms spread wide as the puppies from a recent litter ran to him, lapping tongues and excited yips. He wanted them all, begged, and pleaded his dad to take home three, then two, and finally settled on one- a stern-looking puppy he named Winston and held in his lap the entire ride home.

It didn’t fill the emptiness entirely- too many different loves that weren’t interchangeable- but the change was night and day, a joy sparking back to him that had faded shortly after settling into their new home. And it was intoxicating, the sheer love and companionship, and spurred him to collect more and more strays. The first two without William’s knowledge or allowance until he realized it was a losing battle and accepted that a small army of dogs and a thin coating of hair on every surface of their home was worth it.

His habit of collecting strays seemed to extend to other sorts though, Matthew clinging to him like a fly to sweet honey. He accepted his presence in his life with the same sort of acceptance his dad did the many dogs.

_What other choice do I have?_

And now it seemed he had another stray at his heels, a far more vicious one that he was unprepared to handle. As if he was a beacon to the world, collecting all the rotten individuals and summoning them to him.

What luck.

He understood it, of course. And if he really thought long on the matter, he supposed it was more appropriate to consider himself the stray, Matthew and Lecter seeing something in him that could not be offered by their various peers. A chance to be seen and accepted regardless, to unwind and stretch their limbs that were cramped from crouching in hiding for so long.

He didn’t need an empathy disorder to empathize with Matthew and Lecter.

Loneliness had a dull ache- an all-encompassing one that he was well acquainted with.

He rolled from his bed with a sigh, dressing for the day. Only four more days of school before the winter break.

Seven more days before he would be waiting in Lecter’s home for the man to return to him with a gift, like a proud parent watching their child excitedly unwrap their presents on Christmas morning.

It was an...odd thought, and he pushed it away, still not fully processing the reality of the day before. He was overwhelmed by it all, by the sheer multitudes of Lecter’s masks and the promise of finally realizing his fantasies. His stomach was still fraught, indigestion heavy in his chest, and even though he felt hollow with hunger the thought of eating made him nauseous.

His anger had dimmed though, finding it hard to keep hold of. There was a part of him that still expected Lecter to kill him when all was said and done, and an odd sort of acceptance had settled within him at the thought.

He simply hoped the man wouldn’t make him into something pretentious.

Maybe he would take requests and Will could die with the knowledge that Lecter would turn him into a greasy burger. It was a delightful if morbid thought, the image of someone so refined eating a burger with buns sodden with fat and bright yellow cheese. American cheese, the individually wrapped singles kind. He would haunt Lecter for an eternity if he dared pair him with a Gruyere or Camembert or, heaven forbid, _Brie_ in some sort of savory-sweet monstrosity. Hell wouldn’t be able to stop his apparition from continuing his destructive spree on Lecter’s belongings if he made him into a burger with _Brie_.

He was quiet as he padded his way down to the living room, backpack slung over his shoulders. The television set was on, his dad watching the news as he waited for Will to take him to school. The keys were held loosely in one hand, the other gripping a mug of coffee and Will turned to the television just as it shifted to an on-site reporter, police cars and yellow tape filling the screen. _“… caller, Agents discovered the gruesome scene left behind at the Harbor Bank of Maryland. They are reaching out to anyone who might have seen suspicious activity and asking that all reports be made to-”_

A number appeared on the screen, just above the scrolling banner. _Chesapeake Ripper Claims Another Victim._

He swallowed, blinking back the memory of sitting opposite Lecter before his tantrum and his single-minded determination to destroy his belongings. Blinking back the memory of Lecter offering to show him his room, only to warn him it was still occupied. He was alive then, only twenty-four hours beforehand. Will sitting beside, above or below him.

And now he was dead.

He closed his eyes as if doing so would seal him up from the guilt seeping into him. As if doing so would blind him to the number on the screen and absolve him of responsibility. The knowledge that he was half-responsible for the death. Guilt by association and silence.

He must have made a noise, because the armchair his dad was sitting in groaned, the television clicking off as he stood up. “Ready to go?” he asked, and Will nodded, opening his eyes just in time to see his dad turn from him and disappear out the door.

He followed after, joining him in the truck and sitting in the same uncomfortable silence that pervaded since the morning before. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, considering the contact screen for several seconds before typing a message to Doctor Lecter.

It simply said, _‘why?’_

Why this victim? Why the one before it- the suspended and hollowed out angel? Why all the others that came and passed and were remembered as nothing more than names on his resume?

What did it take to get hunted by the Chesapeake Ripper?

He set the phone in his lap, hoping the one-word message would be understood and was surprised when it buzzed with a notification only a half minute later.

‘ _Is there an answer I could give that would change your opinion of me?’_

He chewed this lip, considering the question before tapping out another quick message. _‘No.’_ He placed his phone face down, ignoring the response that came.

He deleted the thread during a trip to the bathroom, stubbornly refusing to read the next message.

~x~

Friday came slowly, marked by dragging days spent with little work as teachers gave up on trying to hold the focus of a class eager to begin their holiday. Friday, in particular, was exceptionally useless- Chilton focusing on rounding out the semester with reports on the progress made by each student and leaving them to their relative own devices under the supervision of an aid- themed movies playing idly in the background as they milled about each other. Heads bowed around desks as several groups of students chatted in hushed tones, broken occasionally by harsh laughter.

Will sat quietly to himself, feet hanging off the edge of his chair as he wrapped his arms around his legs and only partially paid attention to _A Charlie Brown Christmas._ He had yet to decide if the cartoons were meant as an insult- generic and hygienic family-friendly entertainment for the teens who would be too overstimulated by something flashier, something too much like violence- or if Chilton was simply paying homage to the classics knowing they would be white noise anyway.

It was hard to tell when he was being genuine sometimes.

He was almost thankful when it came time for his appointment with the man in question, feeling too much like a miser when the sound of laughter grated on his nerves, and he settled into the chair before Chilton’s desk, hands folded in his lap.

It was a surreal thing, knowing that the next time he sat there, he would be a killer.

He wondered if he would still feel small. Hopeless. If the title would imbue him with some strength or confidence that he otherwise lacked. An aura to him that others would perceive but could not name.

If he could finally feel normal; the beast that twisted his thoughts finally slayed and the hatred and rage put to rest beside him, buried six feet under.

Provided, of course, Lecter didn’t kill him.

“You’ve been different this past week,” Chilton said, eyes narrowed suspiciously and Will startled with the realization that he was not fully present, nodding his head out of habit as Chilton spoke. “Has something changed?”

Will licked his lips. “N-no. I mean...other than Monday morning...I guess I just feel...lost,” he said, clinging to his feigned innocence; to the story Lecter concocted about a traumatic night of sleepwalking and fugue-like state that sent him seeking help.

Chilton hummed. “You say you feel lost, and you certainly seem it now, but that isn’t what I’ve gotten from you when you think no one’s paying attention,” he mused softly, fingers curling over his chin.

“How do I seem then, Doctor?” Will asked, and Chilton smirked at the brash tone. The familiar roughened exterior he’d come to know and loathe.

“You seem...resolved,” he said, tilting his head side to side as he pulled the word from his thoughts.

“I don’t feel resolved,” Will answered, trying and failing to keep the snark from sharpening his words.

Chilton sighed, letting his head fall to the side as he glanced at Will. “Is it worth my while to ask you anymore to expand on that? You’ve been on such a track record of sharing, I shouldn’t be surprised to see it come to an end.” He leaned forward, pulling his padfolio open and scribbling something down.

The scratching of the ballpoint pen came to an abrupt halt when Will said, “Did you ever like me?”

It was not the words he thought he would say when he opened his mouth, and he took comfort in knowing Chilton was just as caught off guard by them as he was, brows sloping into a high point on the center of his forehead. “What?” he asked.

Will leaned forward, more certain now in his question as he said, “Did you ever like me? Like, at all? Or did you only pretend to for as long as it took for you to get a good article or two out of me?”

Chilton stammered, lips sputtering as he struggled to find an answer to the question. A satisfying one- a defensible one. Finally, he set the pen down, rubbing a hand over his brow as he chuckled. “You want the honest answer, then?”

“Please,” Will said with a nod. “I don’t think lies would be a benefit to my therapy, after all.”

Chilton’s lips quirked into a small, wavering smile. “Honestly? You were a cute kid, once. I _did_ like you. And I wanted to help you-” he frowned when Will scoffed, the sound tapering into a laugh as the teen folded his arms over his chest and sat back in the chair. “Is that funny?”

“Hilarious,” Will replied bitterly. “You never wanted to help me. You wanted to _study_ me.”

“Is that why you stopped talking to me? So that I had nothing else to study?”

“Why bother talking when everything I said would become fodder for another article?” Will said, and there was something undeniably freeing about it. Confronting Chilton with his wrongs, the betrayal that still ached even after five years. Festering away at the wound. How could Will be expected to talk when he felt like their words would not be safe between them, the way he thought they were until the first article was published and he realized he was nothing more than a case study? Why would he offer him more secrets- more neurosis and fears and pain- when the little he gave him at the beginning of their relationship were turned against him and used as his rough draft?

Chilton said nothing, a rare moment of self-introspection, and Will took the opportunity to ask- unable to keep the venom from his voice: “How many articles have you started writing these past few weeks? Has solving my sleepwalking been your main concern? Or analyzing it for others?”

The following silence was all the answer Will needed- though precisely the answer he expected- and he slapped his hands on his knees, ready to stand. “No point then in sitting here for another forty-five minutes,” he muttered. He was half-standing, left in an awkward crouch, when Chilton finally spoke, an uncharacteristic softness to his voice that gave Will pause.

“What would you have told me if I didn’t publish those articles, then?”

He swallowed thickly, letting his spine straighten as he stood. It felt better this way, standing above Chilton and looking down. It tipped the scales in his favor a bit, eliminated the distance between them created by the desk, and the reminder that their relationship would always place one above the other.

The question turned in his brain, words burning like embers through his synapses, etching into the curved interior of his skull. Dimly aware that it was an opportunity to change course, to stop himself from slipping down a cliff that there would be no salvation from. No repentance to be given or offered. A fork in the road, as the old adage presented. Two paths presented before him with the same general destination.

He considered the possibility, the sharp division of his reality if he only said the words that sat in his throat, strangling him. Choking and suffocating on the admission for years, the air thin as it seeped into strangling lungs and eyes watering. Like staring into two separate screens at once- a divided stage with a sharp line in the center of the two worlds that sat dangling before him.

The first was covered in blood, a crime scene. The acrid and pungent aroma of blood thick in the air, mingling with the smell of sweat and bleach sitting beneath it all. Something, something citrus cologne a sharp injection to the scent as Lecter stood beside him. It was a scene rich with distrust and violence and vengeance and the thought of it made his mouth water, something within his chest stir at the tantalizing promise of it all. An end. A brutal amputation to the torture he endured for years and ending it all in blood and ivory bones, skin ripped and torn apart.

The other scene spelled an end too, though a far different one. Where the first was a single and quick cut of a diseased limb, this one was lumbering. A dragging and bloodied body caught in the crossfire, weighed down by the mangled limbs. It consisted of the thin mattress of an examination table, latex gloves dragging along his flesh. It consisted of the words he didn’t think he could say once being forced from him over and over and over again, a parade of things he didn’t want to say being pried like teeth, bloodied roots leaving gaping holes.

He thought of the exam room he sat in so often since he was a child, cleaned so frequently there would be no trace.

He thought of the doctor’s personal office he also sat in from time to time, not cleaned with the same fervor. He imagined it thick with the smell of luminol and panic ignited within him anew. He imagined the report, his name reduced within the tiny eight-point font of a report, bracketed with the word victim annotated beside it. His heart raced at the thought of his name on a DNA report he couldn’t attest or defend against, shame coloring his skin and the scene shifted to a courtroom. Filled with too many eyes and already he knew the testimony that would be pulled forward from the reveal of the luminol and Will’s history of manipulation and his inability to keep eye contact and the sight of his dad watching as Will stumbled over the words in front of a judge and jury and he knows he _can’t._

He can’t do it.

He would rather die than sit through the _months_ of public and enduring torture.

And he would certainly rather kill than do it.

He pinched his lips and averted his gaze. “Nothing. There’s nothing I would have said,” he mumbled. Chilton did not protest as he pushed the door open, leaving the office behind.

~x~

Hannibal wound his way through his home, a glass of sangria curled in his hand. He typically found such drinks to be too sweet, but Alana offered to make a few pitchers for the party and he accepted the glass to be polite. It was better than he anticipated, a lovely and bold Cabernet mixed with brandy and apple selzer, sprigs of rosemary and cinnamon sticks settling in against the brim of the glass. Star anise, pear, and orange slices added a burst of brightness, and his praise was more honest than polite and he was pleased to see she moved on since his harsh rebuttal of her a week prior.

Moved on, though she did not cling to him the way she often did during his events. She assisted in the kitchen as always and was gracious enough to offer her help when she thought he might need it, but he had since lost sight of her in the thick of the crowd, bustling dresses and orchestral holiday music filling the space.

He thought he had last seen her speaking with Bella, doing her best to ignore Jack Crawford’s glum mood at having failed to catch the Ripper before he killed another. He was a dour presence in the party, and Hannibal almost regretted not having secured his third kill if only to usher in the acceptance that the Ripper would evade Jack for another year and a half. He still held on to the thin, fraying chord of hope that Christmas would bring with it an end to the Ripper’s reign.

_Almost_ regretted it, he thought as he caught sight of Chilton and Sutcliffe standing beside the harpsichord. He took a longer than strictly necessary sip of his drink, thankful Alana had been heavy handed with the various alcohol and strode to meet the two guests he had yet to welcome all evening.

“Frederick! Donald! Thank you for coming tonight, it’s always a pleasure to meet outside of our work,” he greeted, offering a smile and tip of his head in the direction of both men.

“Thank you for having me,” Donald returned, raising his own glass of sangria in turn. “Though I’m afraid Frederick is soiling the mood by insisting on discussing work anyway.” His eyes were sparkling in the light of Hannibal’s home- brighter than usual, more welcoming than the intimate shadows he preferred for himself and decorated for the holidays with candles and string lighting.

“What work could be so important that it can’t rest for the holiday season, Frederick?” Hannibal asked, arching a brow. Though he had his suspicions he already knew, and the smile he offered bordered the precipice between too-forced and natural.

Chilton scowled, raising his chin in an attempt to seem taller than he was- an animal arching their back and hair standing straight on end. “It’s precisely because of the holiday season I’m concerned,” he said, sipping his drink slowly. Theatrically. “I called William Graham today and encouraged him to hospitalize Will since he'll be without his usual round of appointments for two weeks. Not as if he cared what I had to say.”

Hannibal frowned, hoping it was a reflection of concern for his patient and not a reflection of his anger at the two men for so openly discussing the very boy they both so greedily abused- in drastically different ways. It was tasteless, unfair that they should be able to hold that name in their mouths when they were so undeserving of it. “A frequent suggestion from you, if I understand correctly,” he said, knowing it sounded barbed but unconcerned.

Perhaps Alana had been _too_ heavy-handed with the alcohol.

“Yes, because I’m right,” he said, tone spiking in aggression. As if he was the only one speaking truths in a world too deaf to heed his warnings. Though Hannibal supposed as he swirled his glass, he was speaking the truth. He was astute in his suspicions of Will. “And especially now. He seems...different lately. Resolved is how I would describe it.”

Remarkably astute.

“Resolution is typically met with positive connotations and yet you suggest the matter with such disdain. Why?” Hannibal volleyed, his mind already toying with ways to clear their tracks even further so that all of Chilton’s suspicions would be just another false prophecy should he try to point the finger at Will. Another Abel Gideon that would further crash and dissolve his career until he was left to pick up shifts at a local movie theater, smelling like popcorn and sickly-sweet soda.

It was a humorous notion.

“Resolution is only positive when not applied to a teenager who's been fantasizing about killing people since before he was old enough to ride most roller coasters,” Chilton said with a scoffing laugh, brushing at his lapel. He slanted his gaze to Donald, belying the secret surrounding the _redacted_. Donald was too busy glancing around the room, trying his best to act as if he wasn’t clutching on to every word with all the strength of a man with a dangerous secret.

Hannibal rose his brows, let out an exhale in surprise. “You think he’s decided to act? That’s quite an accusation. Surely you must have compelling evidence to believe it well enough you tried convincing William to hospitalize his son for the holidays. You understand the importance of evidence, I'm sure,” he said, voice lilting on the edge of his taunt. The words he couldn’t say nestled within the more acceptable syllable. _The last time you made an accusation without evidence, it gutted you and your career._

Chilton faltered, pouting at the implication before saying, “I just thought I would give him a fair chance, is all. I know if I were him I’d like to know if I should start locking my door and sleeping with a gun under my pillow.”

Donald sputtered into his drink, wiping his lips with his knuckles. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Will might have his faults but he’s a good kid,” he said with a grin, and Hannibal’s stomach soured and he weighed the merits of breaking his glass against the harpsichord beside him and using the shards to cut the grin from his face.

It would be impulsive and satisfying in a way he couldn’t give a name to.

Instead, he sipped his drink, hoping the action concealed the snarl that was dangerously close to twisting his lips.

Chilton sighed, a weary and drawn-out sound that was more sincere than his usual antics. A boy who cried wolf so often for attention that the townspeople sneered when he warned of the wolf hidden beneath a sheep’s wool. He muttered something Hannibal wasn’t bothered enough to catch as he turned and left to chase down a server, scrutinizing the platter of food.

“If he could have it his way, Will would have been subjected to so many rounds of ECT that he’d be incapable of picking up a pencil,” Donald muttered, leaning forward so only Hannibal could hear. “He’s been wanting to use him as a guinea pig for the efficacy of it on treatment for psychopathy ever since he was a kid. I’ve practically had to beat him back with a stick.”

“Considerate of you,” Hannibal said, the words tasting foul and metallic in his mouth. He slipped a hand into his pocket, hoping the fabric restraint would aid in his impulse control. He felt dangerously untethered. “Though I will admit to some surprise myself.”

Donald furrowed his brow. “In what way?”

“Not to sound too braggadocious, but Will’s progress during our therapy sessions has been astounding,” he began, watching as his words carefully settled on Donald’s face. Watching as a slight wrinkle appeared between his brows, his lips twitched. “He’s begun sharing things with me that, from what I understand, he hasn’t shared with other psychiatrists. Things about you.”

Donald swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing with the motion. “Oh? Like what?” His words did not tremble with anxiety, at the fear of exposure. A lie and manipulation no doubt readied on his tongue and Hannibal frowned as he recalled the words Will had hissed at him from across the dining room table, shards of glass and meat between them. _‘Not the first time I heard that. I’m not stable enough to be believable.’_

The words had angered him at first, inspiring ire and rage that the petulant teenager had deigned to call him a _pig_. How ungrateful, after all the help Hannibal was offering him. But the words had time to settle, to rest and marinate in his brain and he found- when they had rotted away to reveal the bones beneath- that his anger had faded into something else. Something unfamiliar.

Regret.

It was not a thing he felt often- if at all, really. Even the decisions he wished he didn’t have to make were untouched by such a thing. There was an occasion or two where he wished the fates had aligned differently for him- he really did love Florence and hated having to move- but he always did what was necessary to live the way he desired without undue suspicion.

Using Will’s own instability was such a thing- a baseline for his own defense built upon the crumbling foundation of another. And even with hindsight, it was clear it was the best and smoothest course for his own moves.

Yet, he wished it wasn’t. Or that he challenged himself to find something else. A different manipulation that, while still cruel in its own right, was not the same one a pig such as Sutcliffe had grasped onto.

He regretted his own laziness, he decided, giving the thought no more presence in his mind.

Donald hid his anxiety well, preparing to twist whatever it was Hannibal was ready to say but he could not hide the sweet smell of it that peeled from him. Could not hide the slight dilation of his pupils in the already brightened room.

When the satisfaction of watching the man sweat had been dragged out as far as it reasonably could, Hannibal said, “He told me you were the person he first gave voice to wanting to hurt. I suppose I’m surprised you’re still willing to work with him after such an admission.”

The relief was palpable to someone looking for it, and Donald huffed out a sputtering laugh, shaking his head. “It was a long time ago, and I don’t think he meant it. He was just...mad and he hated that I would write about him. I’m sure he’s had similar thoughts about every other doctor he’s seen. You, even,” he said with a dismissive wave, glancing about the room. Perhaps looking for a swift exit from the conversation that came too close to something he wished to keep hidden.

“Still,” Hannibal said, not relenting his hold on the man for a few more minutes. “I’ve been made to believe the therapists willing to treat him is an ever-dwindling circle, and they’ve been trained to deal with his sort of illness. I suppose I’m just uncertain where you two stand after all that, is all. Surely you must have some reservations?”

Donald whipped around, an aggression to his words that was otherwise mellowed but again- Hannibal was looking for it and it was there, simmering beneath the surface. “Will and I know where we stand. You don’t have to worry about it,” he said. He blinked, cleared his throat as he added, in a softer tone, “We’ve talked about it, I mean. He understands that I’m just trying to help others who might struggle the way he does by writing about him. He’s really not as hateful as Frederick paints him. He’s a good kid, he knows my helping him also helps his dad out. His medical bills would be exorbitant.”

The temptation of the glass in his hands proved to be too great, and Hannibal set it down on his nearby desk over top a tissue to capture the sweat of the drink. He slipped both his hands in his pockets as he nodded in understanding. “Of course. Now, I don’t know about you, but unlike Frederick, I don’t enjoy spending my evenings discussing work if I can help it,” he offered with a smile. “Any plans for the holidays? I haven’t seen Lucille- has she been avoiding me?”

Donald laughed, thankful for the change in conversation. “She’s avoiding all of us, actually. She and the kids flew out to visit her parents in Florida. They’ll be back Christmas Eve,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve had such a quiet week before the holidays. I almost don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Hannibal teased with a good-natured grin, delighting in the turn of events. His plans for the evening were much simpler now than they had been when he had to account for his family, and he eased into the conversation with a lightness that came with such good graces.

_Fortuitous._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of set up before the action. Also Murder Daddy being protective of his murder baby because I crave a cannibal soft for one (1) sweaty, dog-haired covered empath.
> 
> Next chapter: Will and Hannibal discuss what exactly he would like to do, and the final preparations, and the night in question, begins.


	23. Pig Farm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter gets a little heavy. Will suffers from some flashbacks which are not described, but his thoughts to them are, so here is a proper fair warning.
> 
> Song listed is The Reckoning by Halestorm.

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Pig Farm**

Will was stretched out on his bed, resting on his stomach. His arms were folded, creating a cradle for his chin to rest in as he read his book, headphones resting in his ears. He never really listened to music unless he was in the car and needed something to fill the stretches of silence, the small and cluttered space of a vehicle like a vacuum. It was typically too distracting, but the distraction was preferable to everything else at the moment. To his straining relationship with his dad, tipping further and further toward an ill-defined precipice every day. To the tangled thoughts about Doctor Lecter and the pact soon to be sealed in blood between them.

To the night itself, quickly approaching and everything that came with it. Promises and threats bound together.

The music blared in his ears, loud and noisy, and drawing his mind away from the _too-muchness._

‘ _Cross my heart, broke your promise, told me lies. Why did you watch me suffer, make me feel like I deserved to? Everybody takes, everybody breaks somebody’s heart leaving some on their own. But this felt more like you ripping flesh from bone.’_

Zoe was curled up on the small of his back, a pleasant and warm weight. A physical sensation he could anchor himself with when his thoughts fluttered too much and he realized with a frown that he was reading the same line in his book several times over.

It was Monday, and his stomach was pulled into a permanent knot, contorted in on itself with dread and anticipation in equal measure.

‘ _You made a mess out of me, where do I begin? You paid for your sins. Like a reckoning, you never saw coming, I’m the reaper outside your door. You took everything made me feel less than nothing, I’m getting what I came for.’_

It was a double-edged sword, considering what he wanted to do once the time came. It was overwhelming- old fantasies and new fantasies sparking and igniting in his mind, and he would tremble with the thought of bringing them to life. Too many to choose from, too many things he wanted to do but having to pick and pull the thread of restraint until he found the ones he really wanted to do.

‘ _Like the sound of all the stars crashing in the dark, I said a prayer and buried your name. And up through the ashes, I rose like wildfire.’_

The worst though was the crashing wave of memories that came with it, a culmination of all the wrongs- each and every word and _touch_ summoned to his mind. Eight years' worth of nightmares collapsing into themselves and imploding within his mind. They were seeping from him like he had a hole in his head and all the thoughts and memories were spilling out into the world around him.

He was finding it harder to remain present, to not sink into the inky blackness of his memories. Like a ship crashing against rocks in his haste to follow the siren’s song, and now he was drowning, sinking into the nothing.

‘ _I gave you more than my heart could hope for; You misused it. Scraped up every piece that fell to the floor when you tore through it.’_

He closed his book with a snap, pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling a shuddering breath. Soon he would be able to bury them all; encase them in a coffin and shovel graveyard dirt on them. Clean out the space they took in his mind and never have to think of them again.

Because he would be dead, the memories dying with him.

It felt...disorienting. A part of him still didn’t truly believe it would happen or that Lecter was simply toying with him some more. Offering him a spark of hope before tearing that hope to shreds and gutting him. His thoughts were cynical this way, and he knew he should be more concerned that he wouldn’t mind being stabbed and killed so long as it came after he killed Sutcliffe.

The betrayal would be too great otherwise.

‘ _Laying me to ruin, you knew what you were doing, leaving me to skin and bone. But trusting you was no one’s fault but my own. You get what you give, so take your last breath before I lay you to rest.’_

He let his head fall against his folded forearms, eyes squeezed shut against the thoughts and memories that were vivid in his mind. Skin crawling like bugs over his bones, itching in a way that he could not scratch. An itch deep below the layers of his dermis- on the very muscles themselves. He already showered that morning and was wearing freshly laundered clothes but the thought of a hot shower- steam burning away the sensations across his flesh- was a tempting one.

He jumped when a hand pressed against his shoulder, twisting his body over so quickly that poor Zoe could only yelp as she fell to the bed, paws kicking in the air before she found her footing and scampered off.

His dad was standing over the bed, mouth drawn into a deep frown and Will didn’t bother to pull his earbuds out before shouting, “What the hell?”

‘ _Like a reckoning, you never saw me coming, I’m the reaper outside your door-’_

The music came to an abrupt end when William reached out, tugging the chord so the buds ripped from his ears and he winced at the sudden nothingness around him. The too-quiet world a prison more than it was a respite now.

“I’ve been trying to call out to you and knocking on your door for five minutes!” William spat, dropping the headphones so they sat like a coiled serpent on the mattress, attached to Will’s phone.

Will scoffed, reaching for them only for his hand to be slapped away by his irate father. Ever since last Monday morning, he was in a constant state of agitation. Uncertain of what to say to Will but saying everything through heated glares and spit-slicked, curt words. Their relationship had never been this fraught, like a wound held together by weak sutures that they took turns clipping with barbed words and doors slammed too hard in their frames.

“Hannibal called,” William said, and he unplugged the headphones from Will’s phone, curling the wire around three fingers before slipping it into his pocket. “He wanted you to call him to check-in. Since you can’t come into the office, he wanted to at least speak with you over the phone.”

“Okay,” Will said, words slanted with juvenile rage.

But his dad didn’t leave, standing before him expectantly as his gaze fell down to the phone on the mattress and then rose to Will.

“Now?”

He sighed, eyes casting up to the ceiling as though looking at his son was simply too difficult a task to manage anymore. “Yes, Will, now. I want to make sure you do it instead of _forgetting_.”

“Do you want to do a conference call, too? Or do I at least get some privacy?” he spat back, grabbing his phone and yanking it to his chest in a frantic and harsh motion.

“Drop the attitude,” William said, wrinkles digging into the soft skin around his eyes.

Will held his tongue, dialing Doctor Lecter and turning the screen over so his dad could see the name in bright white lettering, resting just above the dialing icon. He held the phone to his ear, scowling when his dad still didn’t move.

The phone clicked as the man answered, his warm and low accented voice curling around Will’s ear as he greeted him. _“Hello, Will,”_ he said, a chipper quality to the words that seemed out of place given what he knew about him.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter. Can you please confirm for my dad that I’ve called you?” he said, holding the phone out to his dad once more before waiting for him to answer.

William frowned, shoving the phone away and turning from Will. “No need to be a smart ass,” he mumbled, disappearing down the hall as Will held the phone once more to his ear.

“ _I take it your father hasn’t relaxed since last weekend?”_

“Why couldn’t you have just called me?” Will huffed into the phone, annoyed and frustrated but unable to take it out on the right person and finding Lecter an adequate enough stand-in. He slid out of his bed, stamping down the stairs, dogs trailing after him. He would talk outside, where it was private and there was no chance of being overheard.

“ _It would be inappropriate to call without first discussing it with your father,”_ he answered simply, and Will scowled. It was a reasonable enough answer- should suspicion on him get far enough along they issued a subpoena for his phone records and there was an unexplained phone call with his therapist, it would not bode well for either of them- but he was in a foul mood. Raw and cut like an exposed nerve. He was still trembling from the memories he was pulled from without warning, ears ringing with the echo of the music that still wasn’t loud enough to drown them out.

He pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder as he slipped on his boots, not bothering to tie them. He paused on his way to the door, plucking a candy cane from a dish on the table and peeling away at the plastic covering. It would give his mouth something to do, an excuse for him to take his time answering questions. Allowing him to truly think and consider before speaking.

“He’s just been mad ever since last Monday. He’s impossible to be around,” he mumbled, shoving the candy in his mouth as he and the dogs jumped from the porch, cold air harsh against his cheeks. Like teeth marks digging into soft flesh.

“ _I’m sure he thinks the same about you,”_ Lecter said, pausing before he added, _“Are you eating something?”_

Will slurped noisily on the candy in answer.

“ _It’s rude to eat while you’re on the phone, Will.”_

“Sorry,” he said, the word muffled around the candy. His lips twitched into a smile when the sigh passed through the speaker, a mechanical quality to the bluster of air. “Did you call just so you could yell at me for my manners?”

“ _Lack thereof, and no,”_ Lecter said, his voice sobering as he focused on the task at hand; the reason for this midday call and Will’s heart raced, thudding heavily against his chest. _“Have you considered what you would like to do?”_

He twisted the candy cane in his mouth, letting the hook knock noisily against his teeth. Saliva pooled on his tongue, sweet with the taste of peppermint and he took his time answering. Slurping the candy and his spit while trying to steel his nerves.

“ _Can you stop eating, Will?”_ Lecter said, the wince somehow conveyed through his words and it only inspired him to make more noise and take longer to respond. It was a slight thrill, annoying Lecter. Like poking a sleeping bear. His game came to an abrupt end when Lecter added, _“Using food or candy to avoid the subject won’t work, so stop acting like a brat.”_

He pulled the candy from his mouth. “I’m not being a brat or avoiding anything. I just...don’t know what to say,” he answered, words softening as he reached the end of the sentence. He was meandering through the yard without a destination in mind, towards the tree line surrounding the property. Ice crisped beneath his steps, like shards of glass. The dogs ran off in the distance, scampering excitedly in the snow and jumping at each other.

“ _Do you not know what you’d like to do?”_

“No,” he answered after a moment, winded from the cold. He should have taken the time to put on a coat.

“ _Are you ashamed to say it? Because I assure you, Will, there is nothing you can say that will startle or alarm me.”_

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” he asked wryly, though it did, in a perverse way. There _was_ something comforting in knowing that even the darkest corners of his head were not too dark for Lecter to settle into, delighting in this shared disease. There was a comfort in knowing he wouldn’t be too much, wouldn’t scare away someone simply by exposing himself to them- the way he feared he would with Doctor Bloom. Fearing the rejection and revulsion that would surely follow.

He sighed, twirling the candy cane in his fingers. “Have you ever...” he hesitated, trying to force the words that sat like a lump in his throat, resisting breaking free after so long. “Have you ever... _fed_ your... _guests?”_ He blanched at the euphemism but found it the more acceptable term. Victim was too bleak, too on the nose.

“ _Of course. It’s only polite if they’re with me for an extended period of time. Do you have a final meal you’d like to serve your pig?”_ There was shuffling in the background, metal clattering together as Lecter spoke.

Will chewed his lips, digging the crowns of his teeth into the inner membrane of his cheek. It felt depraved to say it, even to a man such as Lecter. But there was only one opportunity to do this, and the thought had bounced around his skull since he sat in the truck in silence with his dad, the taste of vomit and human flesh nestled between his teeth. He grimaced as he said, “Yes. Himself.”

Whatever Lecter was doing came to a sudden halt, a still quiet meeting his confession and he pulled the phone away, making sure the line hadn’t disconnected. He swallowed, hastily adding, “Is it...is that possible?”

Lecter was thoughtful when he next spoke. _“It’s time-consuming. Between the...removal of the meat and keeping him stable enough to cook and prepare it. But, yes. Possible, though I’d recommend something quick to cook. No grand feasts for our guest.”_ His tone was warm with delight, and Will could envision the parentheses framing his mouth as he grinned.

Will’s mouth felt dry, chest constricting. He disliked the use of the word _our_ , something settling in the rounded bellies of the letters that felt oddly intimate. “No, nothing big. Just an appetizer I guess. Finger food,” he muttered, shoving the candy cane in his mouth before he could say anything more.

“ _Did you have a recipe in mind?”_

“I was hoping you’d take care of the recipe part,” he said, scrunching his nose. His stomach still twisted with nausea at the thought of all the meals he sat down to, clenching painfully with the desire to wretch, and renewed horror would spark within him. He had no wish to cook or eat any more of Lecter’s choice cut, but it was precisely for that reason the thought lingered in his mind. He wanted to impart that same horror, that same sinking dread. That same violation.

“ _The recipe depends entirely on what you’d like to serve. Anything in particular?”_ His tone was casual, though deep in the roughened husk he fell into when delighting in his wickedness- in Will’s wickedness. The tone of arousal and intrigue- certainly not the revulsion Will had always feared his thoughts would inspire.

Will licked his lips. “His hands,” he said in an exhale.

Lecter chuckled. _“Finger food, indeed.”_

The quip was lost on Will, his mind spiraling downward, breath coming out in heaving pants. He _hated_ his hands. More than anything else. The feel of them over his skin, like insect legs crawling over him. The bruising way they gripped the back of his neck, his hips. Hated how they would touch him so greedily and then those same hands would shake his dad’s when he walked Will out into the lobby as if mocking him.

He wanted to cut them off, shove the fingers down his throat. He wanted him to choke on his own touch, suffocate on his own greed.

“ _Will?”_

He blinked, swallowing thickly. His mouth was dry, aching with each sharp inhale, and his chest felt full. Congested on his shallow, uneven breaths. “Sorry,” he mumbled, ribs compressing on his lungs, trapping him shut within himself. Locking himself in. “

“ _We don’t have to-”_

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted, waving his had before stopping short of the motion, letting it drop to his side when he remembered Lecter couldn’t see. “Um...I have...I have another thing I want to do.”

“ _What is that?”_

He sat down on the ground, pressing his back against a tree. The snow crunched around him, the cold seeping through his jeans and into his legs, numbing his bottom. It was grounding, the cold and the pain and he closed his eyes, letting the sensations drag him out from the memories. The memories made vicious with claws and teeth.

He took several steadying breaths, unsure of how long he sat there simply breathing but realizing it must have been long enough that Lecter felt the need to fill the silence, muttering to him through the phone. He furrowed his brow, trying to catch the words being said to him but unable to discern them in his frantic thoughts. “What are you saying?”

Lecter paused. _“Reciting my pasta sauce recipe. Would you like me to stop?”_

Will frowned. “No, it’s fine,” he said, resting his head against the rough bark of the tree, eyes closed to the world. Lecter had a lot to say about pasta sauce, and the thought might have made Will roll his eyes in any other situation but he was appreciative of the wordiness as he tried to catch his breath. Tried to imprint the pattern of the bark into his skin. Tried to replace all memories that sat in his mind with all the words coming through the speaker.

He listened to Lecter debate the merits of heirloom tomatoes, plum tomatoes, and kumatoes, though he seemed to settle on a combination of all three. The words acidity and robustness buzzed around his skull, scoffing softly when Lecter spent a near five minutes total discussing which wine was best to use depending on the dish only to then say the choice ultimately fell on what the sauce was being served with.

He felt more like himself somewhere around the point of hearing which cheese rind was best and his words were snapping as he said, “You haven’t even gotten to the directions yet.”

Lecter’s tone was amused when he said, _“The ingredients are the most important. A different type of tomato or cheese can change the entire composition.”_

Will snorted. “Just buy some Preggo like a normal person _._ ” Winston found Will pressed up against the tree, sniffed his lips that smelled of cold and peppermint. He settled at his side, body warm and soft as Will idly ran a hand over his fur after tossing the half-eaten candy into the woods behind him.

“ _Would you like to continue our conversation then?”_ Lecter asked, aware that Will had settled into his own skin- that he was less off-kilter. The thought made him scowl. He wasn’t sure how much he liked how easily the man could read him- saw through his bitter and biting sarcasm.

But he sighed, tossing the thought away. “I just want to...I want to cut him open,” he said, the words pulled from him with ease now that he had already shared his most depraved desire. This one seemed benign in comparison, _boring_ even, Will dared to think. But it was, after much consideration, the one thing he wanted to do more than all the other, flashier thoughts that marched through his brain. The one thing he wanted to do since he was a child and first understood what exactly he was searching for when the blade on his own skin failed to elicit the response he wanted.

“He used to...” Will began, uncertain of why he started to say the words aloud but finding he didn’t want to stop now that he started, his chest too compressed with his erratic heart and strangling lungs that he needed to clear away some of the words. “He used to say it was...that he was doing tests. To make sure I was healthy. I didn’t know that it-” he was quick to add, scrambling for a defense before Lecter’s calm and measured tone interrupted him.

“ _You were a child, Will. You are not to blame.”_

He exhaled a breath, skewing his eyes shut as he tried to stop himself from tipping over the edge once more. His voice warbled as he said, “I just want to...cut into him. Make sure he’s healthy.” He smiled wryly, the gesture turning into a grimace.

“ _Lucky for you, Will, I am an excellent surgeon,”_ Lecter mused, and there was the sound of something dragging through the phone, a heavyweight hitting the floor. He imagined the man pulling a body across his home as he kept the phone pinched between his shoulder and ear.

“Hopefully a better surgeon than you are a therapist,” he mumbled.

He chuckled. _“I’m an excellent therapist as well. I’d say we’re making tremendous strides in our therapy, wouldn’t you?”_ When Will gave only a derisive snort in response, he added, _“Agree to disagree, then. Though I’m afraid I still insist once more that while revenge will be cathartic, it will not help as deeply as you’d like it to. You can slay the monster but his ghost will still haunt the halls of your mind. And phantoms tend to be harder to exorcise than tangible beasts.”_

Will scoffed at the metaphor, shifting his weight against the tree. There was some more clatter on the other line, and he grasped at the opportunity as he said, “What are you doing?”

“ _Installing security cameras at all known entrance points to my home,”_ he said simply. _“Frederick has had a wave of astuteness wash over him, and he thinks you’ve resolved yourself to action. He’s right, of course, so the cameras will just give us something to prove you never left the house should the need arise.”_

Will narrowed his eyes. “Won’t that be equally suspicious though? You buying and installing security cameras only a day beforehand?”

“ _What do you mean, Will? I had these installed the day after Matthew Brown was discovered outside my home with a knife on his persons. An excellent security measure, though for my own privacy I delete the week’s feed every Monday evening.”_ His tone was light yet firm, measured in his way of speaking that wound his original intent within a riddle.

It made something bubble in Will’s chest- something he could not name flaring at the man. He was reminded once more of the hair Lecter had pocketed and the threat he offered. Lecter could twist and manufacture the narrative however he wanted. He didn’t control the world and reality but he did control other’s perception of it and the realization was enough to sour Will’s mood further as he spat insolently, “I hate you.”

“ _I suspect you don’t. Or at least, not as much as you think you should.”_

Will said nothing, regretting having tossed the candy aside. He sat against the tree, bottom damp and numb from the snow, refusing to part his lips as he listened to the sounds of Lecter building another contingency plan. Manufacturing reality.

~x~

By the time Will stood at Lecter’s door, his nerves were so jumbled he felt dangerously close to vomiting all over his home once more. Anticipation and dread built within him, alongside the humiliated concern that he might freeze when the time came, made so weak and still by all the memories and nightmares that he would be unable to act. He was horrified at the thought- enough so he considered calling it off several times.

He couldn’t think of anything worse than floundering. Than watching Lecter kill Sutcliffe because Will couldn’t manage it and knowing that he would die without once ever having been the one under Will’s thumb. That even in his death, he had power over him, and the chance of something so mortifying, so _awful_ happening had been enough to pry Will awake from sleep, gasping and rubbing at the tears that cut through his cheeks.

“Promise me you’ll behave, Will,” his dad sighed beside him as he reached for the doorbell and pressed the button, chimes sounding from inside. “He’s doing us a favor and I’d really like it if you could understand that.”

“I’ll leave a post-it for my subconscious self,” Will muttered.

Whatever his dad was about to say was cut off when the door opened, Lecter stepping aside to allow the pair into his home. “Hello, William. Will,” he greeted, smiling in a way that was restrained for others but broad for him. He was dressed oddly, foregoing his button-ups and waistcoats and donning only a burgundy colored turtleneck, his hair the loose wisps they had been when Will awoke him in the middle of the night to greet him with the muzzle of a gun. There was something casual about the whole affair, and Will shifted with a renewed sense of discomfort.

“Is there...is there a chance I can speak with you privately? Only for a minute,” William asked, sparing a quick glance in Will’s direction before returning his focus to Lecter.

  
He nodded. “Of course, why don’t you join me in the kitchen? I can brew you some coffee for your drive,” he said, gesturing with a hand in the direction of the kitchen before looking at Will and adding, “We’ll be only a moment. Help yourself to any of the books.”

The two men disappeared down the hallway, leaving Will to stand awkwardly in the foyer. The thought crept into his mind to follow after them, pressing himself flat against the wall and trying to hear whatever it was his dad wanted to discuss. But he decided against it. He was already wound so tightly he was about to burst- he didn’t need to add any more tension to his nebulous sense of control.

He entered the parlor with a huff, tossing his backpack to the sofa as he strode to the bookshelf, fingers trailing along the spines of the tomes. Tomes was the accurate word; it felt grand and archaic, just as the books on the shelves. Leather bound first-editions and pages gilded in gold and silver. It was enough to make him recoil his touch as if the oil from his fingers would degrade them to dust, and he continued his perusal with his eyes.

He stilled in his search when he came across a thick book- a navy blue cover with the golden gilded letter emblazoned on the spine. _Dante’s The Divine Comedy._

He had read the first of the three parts, the _Inferno,_ for class, a study that came to an abrupt end once Dante and Virgil successfully navigated through Hell and all it’s ironic torment. One moment, they were following the poet and writer through the nine circles, descending into a cavern of ice and fluttering wings where each frantic flap was a pulse of air, and the next they were closing the books and handing them in. Moving on to the next subject; mockingbirds and justice failed.

It was odd, wasn’t it? There were still two other parts- an entire journey through purgatory and Heaven that was set aside because the academic merit of such a conclusion wasn’t as strong as the one wrought in blood and anguished cries. Even academics had a lust for it, this cruel and righteous justice, vindication realized in the flames of a casket and a swamp of putrid sludge.

So much focus placed on the sinners and their crimes and bearing witness to their cruelties that they failed to grasp the story proper.

That it was a love story, and Dante traveled through Hell and the bitter _not-enoughness_ of Purgatory for the moment he could sweep Beatrice in his arms as she lead him through Heaven.

  
Curious, he pulled the book from the shelf. Gingerly, as if it might fall apart at his uncertain hands, and he flipped through the pages. The _Inferno_ accounted for a large share of the book, the suffering of sinners an abundant well to draw from, but eventually, he found the next section. _Purgatorio._

_To run o’er better waters hoists its sail_

_The little vessel of my genius now,_

_That leaves behind itself a sea so cruel;_

_And of that second kingdom will I sing_

_Wherein the human spirit doth purge itself,_

_And to ascend to heaven becometh the worthy._

He skimmed through the pages, taking lingering and indulgent glances at the artwork offered every few pages. Wood carvings inspired by the cantos and the journey through Hell, Purgatory and Heaven.

He glanced up when footsteps returned, Lecter walking his dad to the door. He called out a goodbye that Will ignored, unblinking as the door closed and Lecter strolled into the parlor, hands in his pockets. They stared at each other, Will holding a breath that burned in his throat and not releasing it until he heard the familiar sound of the truck door opening and closing, the engine sputtering to life and tires grinding over snow.

“What do we do now?” Will asked, flinching at how soft and unsure his voice sounded.

“Now,” Lecter said, glancing at his watch. “We wait. Until nightfall. I’ll leave around nine or ten and you’ll stay here. In the meantime, I can make us dinner-” he paused, raising a brow as Will pulled his face into an unattractive expression. “Or I suppose, we _can_ order something.”

He seemed put out by the idea, an unattractive expression of his own flitting across his face. “I suppose you should,” Will parroted back.

“Very well,” he answered, brushing something from his sweater that wasn’t there. “Make yourself comfortable then.” He disappeared once more, and Will hesitated only a moment before settling on the sofa with the book in hands, picking up where he left off.

_The souls who had, from seeing me draw breath,_

_Become aware that I was still alive;,_

_Pallid in their astonishment became;_

_And as to messenger who bears the olive_

_The people throng to listen to the news,_

_And no one shows himself afraid of crowding,_

_So at the sight of me stood motionless_

_Those fortunate spirits, all of them, as if_

_Oblivious to go and make them fair._

~x~

It was snowing by the time Hannibal left. Large snowflakes fluttering from the sky, like petals from dying trees in the beginning of autumn. They were illuminated beneath the glow of the streetlamps, within the halo of lights cast by the Christmas decorations that lit up the night. Most golden, though there was the occasional rainbow strand, blinking colors into the dark sky.

It was an easy enough task; he had visited Donald during the week prior under the pretense of discussing a case and some new medical journals with him. He stole the keys easily enough, returning them before Donald noticed their absence or that the house key had gone through the key copier of a local hardware shop. He slipped into the home unnoticed, plastic suit creaking with each step.

His socked feet tread noiselessly across the floor, and he paused for only a moment to consider the family portraits hung upon the walls of the home. School portraits of his two children, wedding photos from a time when he was young and his face smooth. Above the mantel was a professional photo, Donald sitting at the head of the family, arms wrapped around his wife as she held two hands out on a shoulder of each child. His daughter- a young teen in the photo- and his son. Seven or eight at the time.   
  


Stockings hung beneath the photo, dangling weightlessly above the mouth of the fireplace. Plain things, decorated by crude hands with glitter glue when the children were still young enough they enjoyed such activities instead of detested them.

The living room was aglow from the lights of the trimmed Christmas tree, and he considered the ornaments for a moment, gloved hand tapping against some baubles and popsicle stick creations. It was very white-picket fence. An all-American home with a monster dwelling in the basement and he reached out, plucking a porcelain angel from a tree branch and slipping it inside the small bag he brought with him. The ornament clicked against the barrel of the syringe and the glass vials within.

He incapacitated him with such practiced ease it was mundane- sneaking up behind him as he laid in bed with the saturated cloth and clasped it to his face. He awoke in a fright, taking large gulping breaths that only eased the process, and he was slumping in Hannibal’s arms within moments. Quiet and unconscious.

He administered the paralytic then- a mild one to ease the transport and keep him sluggish enough for the night. He had long since discovered performing surgery on alive and awake patients was easier with something to still their limbs. He would hate for Will’s fun to be cut short because he nicked an artery as Donald flailed beneath him.

He drove silently back to his home, the newly purchased car that would be sold to a less than reputable shop for its parts in a few days gliding across the road. It was a routine thing- this hunt- made exciting by the things that would happen only twelve miles away. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, expelling his excess energy.

He already had his room prepared, a tray laid out with all the tools Will would need- or might be drawn to, should he fall into his less calculated and more animalistic self. The recipe card for the meal he would make from the hands already set upon his counter, the pantry stocked and ready. He never used hands himself- too little meat for all the tendons and sinew to be worth the effort. But he had been so pleasantly surprised- left speechless, even- when Will told him what he wanted that Heaven or Hell couldn’t stop him from ensuring Will had the opportunity to feed Sutcliffe his own hands. The palm would have the most usable meat, and he would mix them with some spare fat and push it through his grinder. Meatballs, then.

It was hard to stay present- not something he often struggled with but Will had a way of subverting him and he found himself frequently thinking to this night throughout the week, and now that the night he was here he was thinking even further ahead. To other nights.

He would take Will with him on the next hunt, he decided.

It was too risky with Sutcliffe but on the next one- neither a Ripper kill nor someone that would be tied to Will- it would be safe enough to bring him along. Somewhere secluded where a paralytic wasn’t necessary and he could allow Will to get as feral as he wished, all snarling teeth and wild eyes.

He considered, even further along, killing Chilton.

It would have to be years in the future when Will was away at college and so far removed from the man he would barely be a footnote on the police report. They would devise an alibi- perhaps Will’s course of study would lead to conventions that he would purchase tickets to and attend, briefly. A hotel room he would enter just long enough to disrupt and make it look lived in.

It was an indulgent thought, decadent even, and he allowed himself to bask in the plans of a night so far ahead until he pulled beside his house- just out of the line of sight of the cameras he installed.

His street was always quiet this time of year- most of his neighbors being _snow-birds_ who migrated south in the winter, leaving their homes dark and unattended for months at a time. Hannibal had a nice collection of keys from such neighbors, always graciously offering to keep their mail sorted and water any plants.

No one would see him as he entered his own yard at an odd angle, pulling Donald with him in a fireman’s carry. There was a hidden entrance to his basement, obscured behind his neatly manicured bushes and disguised nicely as an air conditioning unit. An entrance that would not be found on any blueprint found in City Hall.

He dragged Donald down the stairs, one hand gripping the cloth bag he was wound in and the other holding his head secure so he didn’t die untimely from a head injury. He lifted him with only a small grunt onto the bed set in the center of the room, the mattress only an inch thick and coated in plastic for ease of cleaning. The top half was raised at an angle, canted forward so Donald was sat up, legs stretched before him.

He was still unconscious, and Hannibal considered him for a moment before using a pair of scissors to cut through his shirt. He would need to be nude from the waist up at least, and he doubted Will would care for such a task. When he was relieved of all clothes besides his boxers- more for Will’s comfort than Donald’s modesty- he buckled the leather straps that hung like limp appendages from the metal frame. One for each ankle, one around his middle, one on each forearm, and one across his forehead, holding his head in place against the protruding headrest of the surgical table.

He spared the scene before him a cursory glance, ensuring everything was settled and ready before nodding once in satisfaction, ascending the stairs that sat in the floor of his pantry.

Will did not hear him- obviously, as it was soundproof by design- and he didn’t glance up from the book until he heard the shuffle of the plastic suit, eyes finding Hannibal's own with ease.

He had changed since into the spare clothes he brought with him that would be burned by the end of the night- jeans that were too short and a button-up stained with oil. The fire crackled beside him, casting severe shadows onto one half of his face, the other warmed in the golden light and he blinked, swallowed slowly as he set the book aside and rose from the sofa.

“He’s here?” he asked, voice wavering somewhere between anticipation and anxiety, the smell of sweat wafting from him now.

Hannibal nodded. “Ready when you are,” he said, watching as Will’s chest rose in a steadying breath and his eyes fluttered closed. He had been nervous that anxiety would paralyze him in this moment, his mind holding him hostage the way it had over the phone and the thought was a sour one. What a disappointment it would be for Will to allow the man such control of his mind; to be made prisoner by his own memories and deprive Hannibal of the delight at witnessing Will’s becoming.

He would have to kill him if that were the case. The shared crime between them the only thing tethering their secrets together. He would have to kill Will and arrange the crime scene he envisioned with William, tricking the police into believing Will had murdered Sutcliffe and then absconded into the night.

He did not want to kill him.

Thankfully, when Will opened his eyes they were filled not with unshed tears and the shadows of his past, but with resolve. Hardened beneath the light of the fire and he nodded once, bridging the distance between them as he stood beside Hannibal and waited for him to take him to Sutcliffe.

He turned down the hall, escorting Will through the kitchen and gesturing to the pantry, where Will scoffed at the sight of the hinged door in the floor. “Is that for convenience?” he asked.

Hannibal grinned, the tips of his teeth protruding through the smile and he brushed past Will to lead him into the basement. He wanted to see Will’s face as he stepped into the scene, each microexpression that might flicker across his face as his eyes bounced around between the hanging hooks and plastic curtains before settling on the gift Hannibal dragged in for him. Bound and ready to be cut into.

He came to the landing, twirling on his heel just as Will stepped on the bottom step, eyes glancing curiously around him- face shifting between muted horror and resigned awe- before settling on the table in the center. He stilled on the step, bottom lip pulled inward as he chewed on it apprehensively. His breathing had quickened, and a fresh and pungent wave of anxiety slipped from his pores.

“You’re in control, Will,” Hannibal said, making the boy flinch and blink at the words as though he had forgotten Hannibal was standing beside him. Perhaps he had. “Everything that happens now will be because it’s what you want to happen. Nobody else.”

Will considered him for a moment, an indiscernible emotion settling on his face as he nodded slowly, weaving a shaking hand through his curls.

Hannibal moved then, trailing a hand across the metal base of the bed before coming to a stand at the end, just behind Sutcliffe. He had a syringe readied on the tray, and he reached out for it as he asked, “I’m going to wake him up now, alright?”

“Wait-” Will said, just as Hannibal's fingers curled over the device and held the tip of the needle to the base of Donald’s neck. Will licked his lip, glancing up at the ceiling above them- meat hooks hanging in wait, halogen light offering a cold and unforgiving brightness. “Can you...can you lie him flat? Horizontal?”

Hannibal blinked. “Of course,” he said, pulling the lever that maintained the angle of the bed. It flattened with a metallic groan, Donald’s body tossing unceremoniously within the restraints with the motion. He glanced at Will who offered him a quick nod before plunging the needle through the flesh.

The effect was immediate, Donald gasping harshly as awareness struck through him like an electric current. His eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the harshness of the light and his body offered a pathetic, drugged jerk against the leather bindings, the paralytic offering him just enough movement to inspire hope that would wilt and die. Panic settled in when he realized he could not move and the eyes that bounced around- pupils shifting between dilated and shrunken- finally settled on Hannibal’s face as he loomed over him.

“Han-Hannibal?” he asked, voice hoarse with the grog of so many drugs thumping through his system and Hannibal grinned in greeting.

“Hello, Donald. Thank you for joining us this evening,” he said, watching as the eyes narrowed in confusion, a knot forming between his brows.

“Us?”

To answer the question, Hannibal laid a palm on his jaw, twisting his face to the side where Will stood, recognition flickering in Donald’s eyes. He skewed his lips. “Will? What’s happening?”

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, but the words were cut short as Will stepped forward, bending slightly at the waist to look down at Donald. “What’s happening,” he began, words icy and cold and sending a wonderful shiver down Hannibal’s spine, “is some unconventional therapy.”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal over here like some fucking sap planning his future with Will. One step away from scrapbooking it.
> 
> Next Chapter: MURDER BABY WILL. MURDER BABY WILL. That is all.


	24. Butcher Block

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains extended scenes of torture and gore (Not as if anyone’s complaining, I think). Regardless, it is very graphic and not for the squeamish. Also, I’m not a doctor so all the medical stuff is based on surface-level research (guys, I’ll do a lot for this ship, but explaining my search history to the police is not one of them. There’s a limit and I hit it somewhere around searching for a detailed history of cannibalism and whether or not it’s a safe practice.) An additional warning because Will confronting Sutcliffe is obviously a different beast and some cruel taunts are said.

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Butcher Block**

The basement of Lecter’s home had an arid chill to it- like a lab or a morgue and he supposed it was appropriate. It was both those things in many ways.

Despite the cold, sweat clung to Will’s skin, his shirt sticking to the contours of his chest. A thin sheen coated him, damp curls slicking his brow, and when he licked his lips he could taste the salt. The walk from the parlor to the basement had felt like a funeral march, a moment he would be unable to return from and he was afraid of doing it _wrong_. Of freezing at the sight of Sutcliffe before him, arrested in one spot by the memories and residual fear that came with them.

He had grown so much- a lithe but sturdy frame with lean muscle. He was slight but not scrawny by any means and he had formidable strength from the years spent hauling firewood and engines. And yet the man always had a way of reducing him, shrinking him in size until he was as small as he had been when he was eight years old; so shy that he would stand behind his dad and press his forehead against the center of his back. He felt young and small around him, and as he stepped lower into the space his heart sat in his throat, fluttering with uneven pulses as he anticipated the moment he would shrink. The moment he would collapse into himself.

His eyes roamed the room before settling on him, spread on the surgical style table, and bound down with leather straps. His heart thrummed, breath threading through his flared nostrils at the sight of his bare chest, sparse hair grazing across the pectorals. He could feel himself shrinking at the sight, feel the familiar tug of something small and fearful, telling him to just do what was expected of him. As quick and painless as he could manage.

“You’re in control, Will,” Lecter said, dragging him from his thoughts with a shudder. “Everything that happens now will be because it’s what you want to happen. Nobody else.”

He glanced at him, eye contact unwavering as he let the lines sharpen around him. Concise and strong and grounding. He was here in Lecter’s basement- a room saturated with blood and death, anguished cries absorbed into the walls, and floor drains stained red. It should have been terrifying. The meat hooks and plastic curtains sealing away a walk-in cooler should have been the harsh reminder that the man standing before him was a monster. A devil stitched within his skin like the suits he often wore, masquerading around mortals with a smile like a knife.

It was a reminder, yet it solidified him instead of terrified him. The reminder that the drains had a taste for blood and bones and soon they would feed on Sutcliffe’s. He would sink and seep into the foundation alongside countless others.

Because for a reason he didn’t entirely understand, Lecter _wanted_ to help him. He was eager for the kill as if it were his own, an act of kindness that Will was- against his better want- appreciative of. Something struck him then, not quite a fondness- it was too sharp, too jagged for something meant to be soft. But it wasn’t the rigid hatred, the fear that coiled within and made him spring-loaded, anticipating _something_ and preparing to defend himself. An assurance in his presence that bolstered him.

He supposed this was what trust felt like.

He nodded, tugging a hand through his curls and Lecter took the cue to move forward, striding past the table until he stood behind Sutcliffe’s head. He reached towards a prepared tray- instruments glinting menacingly in the light- and his fingers brushed over a syringe. “I’m going to wake him up now, alright?”

“Wait-” Will interrupted, casting his glance up to the ceiling. It was different- a darkened ceiling with hanging hooks- but not terribly unlike the one he himself stared at so often, the buzzing halogen light casting a greenish tint below. “Can you...can you lie him flat? Horizontal?”

Lecter didn’t hesitate, dropping the table down so it laid flat, Sutcliffe shaking with the tremors of the drop and Will nodded for him to continue, moving to stand to the side. He was still waiting for the moment he would shrink, expecting his spine to compress the moment Sutcliffe opened his eyes.

But he didn’t. The metal clasps attaching the leather bindings to the table clanged noisily with the feeble, pathetic movements from the drugged man- unable to so much as roll his head from side to side. The tray of instruments sat like a promise opposite him and he felt emboldened, something unfamiliar coursing through his veins. Where once it had been anxiety and fear, it was now a sense of power. A muted sort of power. Controlled.

The way he felt when Lecter sat on his knees before him, held there by the barrel of a gun but more decadent.

Controlling Lecter had been a matter of pragmatics, a means to an end.

This was the end, and it was going to be exquisite.

Lecter rolled Sutcliffe’s head to the side, forcing his gaze to fall on Will, still narrowed into thin slits. Confusion from his abrupt awakening and the unfamiliar surroundings- perhaps he thought he was still dreaming, held in that veil between worlds. “Will? What’s happening?” he asked, voice hoarse and waned from the drugs and the superficial burns in his throat from chloroform vapors.

In recollection of the night, he might have called himself possessed, moved by an entity other than himself. A dissociation, perhaps, or simply a way to shirk blame from himself. Because in the moment he didn’t feel possessed by another so much as entirely and wholly himself as he bent forward, voice as cold as the room and the metal instruments when he answered: “What’s happening is some unconventional therapy.”

~x~

Lecter slipped the smock over Will just as he had done his jacket a little more than a week ago, and Will tried not to think too hard on the implications as he turned his back to the older man, hands pulling at the ties so the smock was secure around him. Metal clips rattled in drawn-out movements, punctuated by straining grunts as Sutcliffe fought against the hold of the drugs.

“Please, whatever this is...we can talk about it,” he whined, voice thin as he offered reedy and desperate breaths. Will glanced at him from over his shoulder, at the man he _reduced_ so easily. He hadn’t even touched him yet- hadn’t let his fingers caress over the tempting handles of all the tools laid out before him and already he was begging. Something a bit like realization coming to Sutcliffe as each second passed and the dream never shifted, harsh reality becoming bolder and more certain to him.

Lecter moved around him, tapping Will’s wrist to get his attention as he held out plastic gloves for him to slip into. He was donning the armor- preparing for surgery. Precautions made not for Sutcliffe’s health and safety but for the assurance that no evidence would be left behind on the pallid and stiff flesh.

It was more methodical than Will would have liked, preferring to tear into him and feel the blood and torn skin on his hands without a latex barrier to hinder him. But he would make do.

Satisfied that Will was fully prepared, Lecter nodded and led him back towards the table, a hand on the small of his back. Sutcliffe followed the movement, eyes widened as they never once left Will’s face. A ploy for mercy or a search for intent, Will was unsure, but he maintained the eye contact, hoping that whatever the man was looking for wouldn’t be found.

Wheels rolled over the metal floor as Lecter brought over two stools, settling them on either side of the tray of instruments and sitting down on one. Will mirrored the action, watching as Lecter reached underneath the surgical table and pulled out a drawer-like lip, a metal wing that extended between them. He undid the restraints around Sutcliffe’s forearm, holding the wrist as he set it on the small workspace.

The hand-rolled, trembled as Sutcliffe tried to pull it back and Lecter frowned. “For your own comfort, Donald, I’d recommend keeping still,” he said, reinforcing the point by grabbing the hand and settling it back in place, keeping his grasp on the middle of the arm. “Right here, with the marker first,” Lecter instructed, pointing to a spot several inches below the wrist with his other hand.

Will nodded, grabbing the marker from the tray and dragging the felt tip across the point. Fingers twitched, like insects twitching their antennas, and a thrilling rush jolted through Will at the sight of it. Knowing the movement would be impossible soon, fingers forever stilled and detached from the man who misused them.

“What...what are you doing? Stop, _please_ ,” Sutcliffe whined, trying in vain to pull his hand away from Lecter’s firm hold.

Will set the marker down, trading it for a scalpel. He licked his lips, setting the blade against the marked off flesh.

“You’ll need more pressure than you think- you’re trying to cut through all the dermal layers,” Lecter reminded, and Sutcliffe made a strangled sound at the instruction, understanding sparking like a match in his brain and his effort renewed to free his hand.

“No, no, no! Stop!”

Using his right hand, Will enveloped Sutcliffe’s fingers, holding them still as the left tightened his hold on the scalpel. “Back in New Orleans,” he started, experimentally digging the blade in. Slowly- as if trying to feel it cut through each layer. “When I was in elementary school, I had a teacher who used to _‘take our hands away’_ if we hit someone or had a violent tantrum. She meant it _figuratively_ , of course-” Sutcliffe hissed, the sound bubbling into a moan as Will dragged the scalpel across the skin. “She would just hold our wrists and try to get us to calm down enough so we stopped hittin’. She gave them back when we calmed down.” A red seam followed his path, a trail of blood and Lecter held a towel to it, sopping up the fluid as Will turned the scalpel, cutting vertically now along the arm to create a skin flap- just as the books Lecter gave him before leaving depicted. “You’ve been bad, so I’m going to take your hands away. _Literally_ , of course.”

Messy tears were staining Sutcliffe’s face, lips white and trembling and his gaze had slanted to Lecter now, pleas sliding from his mouth alongside spit. “Please, Hannibal. I don’t know what he’s told you but he’s _lying_. This-he’s manipulating you. He-”

His words came to a tapered, trailing end as he blinked, realizing that Lecter was watching Will work with a small smile tipping his lips upward, a reverence for the scene before him in the glow of his eyes. In the silence created by the absence of his cries, he could hear the soft, vibrating hum coming from Lecter.

A hum that sounded distinctly like the tune to _Joy to the World._

He no longer begged, prayers becoming silent and muttered in his head. There were no gods here, no rapturous angels to heed to him. The room was filled with the metallic scent of blood, sobs, and whimpers of pain, mingling with the merry notes Lecter hummed in delight.

Sutcliffe’s muscles strained with the effort to remain still, even as Will peeled the skin back, Lecter ligating the veins to stem the bleeding. The metal table below was the color of rust as blood-smeared and slipped over the edge, pooling on the floor.

His whimpers turned to howls of pain when Lecter set the bone saw in Will’s hand, gesturing with a finger on where to cut so the skin would cover it without being too taut or too loose. The instrument trembled in his hands, a sensation that sparked and traveled up his arms and into his shoulder, painful in the rapid vibrations as he pushed his weight into it.

It was quick and efficient- the bone didn’t so much as splinter at the break. Cries of pain- anguished shouts- echoed in his skull and Will thought it might be the finest symphony he had ever heard.

He wondered if this was why Lecter enjoyed orchestral music so much. If he could close his eyes and force the deep and guttural notes of a trumpet to sound like moans of pain; turn the high-pitched strings of a violin into wails and the fluttering sounds of a flute into sighs and strangled breaths. Violence seeping and bleeding into the elegant and sophisticated world he immersed himself in, obscured by the waistcoats and fluted glasses of champagne.

The bone was filed down to keep it rounded, a technique to lessen pain in the future that Will thought a waste but understood was what the Ripper would do. Surgical precision, even when the efforts would be for naught. A mockery, a dichotomy to the death that would soon follow.

Will placed the severed hand into the bin with a gentleness that was at odds with the savagery, adrenaline hot in his veins.

He slid the stool around the table, rolling himself over to the other side. He fumbled a hand beneath the table until he found another wing, pulling it out just as Lecter had done the other. “Eager, are we?” Lecter asked, words curling playfully as he glanced at Will, still working on the messy and bloody stump.

“You’re going to have to clean that one up anyway,” he said with a shrug, knowing his hand was not as precise and clean as Lecter’s own and would be a jarring red flag to the FBI. “Might as well get started on this one while you're busy.”

Lecter tipped his head in a nod. “I’ll be over in a moment then to assist and _clean up_.” He sounded amused by the prospect instead of indignant, and Will thought once more of how odd it was. All the help he was offering Will, deferring to him as the head of the kill- the one he assisted and cleaned up after. It would have been an altruistic notion if it wasn’t offered over the prone and cut into body of the man strapped down before them.

Will focused on the buckle of the leather straps, untying them and pulling the hand onto the wing. There was little resistance- pain tempering Sutcliffe’s struggles and making him pliant. A resolve settling into him the way it had Will, a sharp shift in their dynamic that so often saw Will as the one soft and moldable, allowing his body to be moved and bent to the whim of another. There was something poetic to it, an undeniable beauty nestled within such cruelty.

“Please,” Sutcliffe spoke- the first words since Will peeled back the skin to reveal the muscle and bones below. Soft and drained, the broken remains of unanswered prayers. He was looking at Will from half-lidded eyes, irises hidden behind the wet fanning of his eyelashes. “Stop this. I won’t...I won’t tell anyone what happened. We can just...pretend it didn’t.”

Will considered him, fingers still curled around the limp wrist. He looked so...small like this. So vulnerable.

It might have made him stop, made his guilt and conscience flare to life with a heightened fervor if not for the certainty that Will had looked just as small, once. Just as vulnerable. And he didn’t stop.

He leaned forward, letting his hold tighten so he was squeezing down sharply on the wrist in his grasp. His voice was a low whisper, barbed and spurred, as he said, “It wouldn’t matter if you did. I mean this-” he paused, licked his lips as he gestured broadly around them, eyes settling on Lecter who was staring at him with a curious expression. “This just sounds _crazy_. Who would ever believe you?”

Sutcliffe’s eyes fluttered closed, lips twitching into a small, bitter smile. The sort of bitter smile one offered when hope dwindled into nothing, burst and collapsed before them leaving only despair and stark, utter acceptance in its wake. A funeral march, grieving his own death before it came to pass.

Will mirrored the same procedure as he had before, finding the motions smoother- more familiar now that they were no longer flat against the pages of a medical text. Two-dimensional lines made real, diagrams coming to life. It was not unlike working on cars or boats, the veins like wires hot with electricity, bones like the aluminum framework. The skin folded back like the hood of a car and the muscle was wet and pink, bones stained by the blood that flowed freely and porous.

Lecter came to join him eventually, the other arm wound in gauze and they fell into a familiar rhythm. Working side by side, passing tools between them like the knives they shared while cooking, the metal wings of the operating tool like the cutting board Will typically found himself stationed at. The chamber music Lecter often played replaced by hushed whimpers and cries that broke between pinched lips, the pain too great to conceal. But it was quieter now, the sound muted in acceptance and perhaps even a stubbornness to give voice to the agony. A small clutch at power- depriving Will of the symphonies to his conduction.

Soon, the two hands sat in the bin at their feet, Will sitting beside Lecter and watching as he pulled the thread through the bundled skin with ease. A surgeon’s hands. He rambled something to Will about the proper way to close such a wound- bearing in mind mechanics for prosthetics and aesthetics as well as future pain management. The words were a pleasant buzz, shifting against the backdrop of his thoughts as the push of adrenaline weaned from his body. Exhaustion settled into his bones now that he settled into the role of observer, his focus only half there as the seams of skin came together, licking his lips in anticipation as he remembered what was to come.

A brief reprieve, the heat of the stove warm on his skin before he would return to serve Sutcliffe his final meal.

It was heady, the thought of shoving mouthfuls of his own flesh into his mouth- forcing him to consume his own greed- and it was startling how unbothered Will was by the thought. That saliva sat thick beneath his tongue at the idea and he thought back to all the research he had done in the past week, perusing the quiet and unrecorded halls of a library to keep his inquiries away from the damnable search history of more modern devices.

He read of the phenomenon of _Folie a deux._

The madness of two.

A disease shared by two individuals, so entangled in each other and the corruptions of their minds it was as if they were of one mind. The same rotted lobes held between them, delusions mired together. Indistinguishable, two parasites without a host feeding on each other instead.

His gaze slanted to Lecter who was still speaking about surgery, the difference between a guillotine and open amputations falling on deaf ears. He was unsure of what sat between them- tied together by a red string of fate or the red veins pulled from a corpse- but there was something he could not name. A madness binding them together and the thought made him swallow, glance away quickly.

He read on the disease known as Kuru.

A disease transmitted from consuming human meat with corrupted prions. A disease which leads to tremors, a loss of ambulatory control. Emotional instability and depression punctuated with fits of hysterical laughter.

It was once called the laughing sickness.

Another word for madness; a thousand different ways to describe the one anomaly.

He didn’t realize he had leaned forward and slumped over, pressing his forehead against Lecter’s shoulder until the man stilled, a brief pause in his words before continuing his speech unaffected. His movements were slower as he sutured the wound, careful to not disturb Will.

He sat like that for some time, his breath warm against his face as it was muffled by the uncomfortable plastic suit, condensation forming on the sheath. The sweater Lecter wore beneath was probably cashmere, and he wondered how soft it would be to rest his face against that instead of the harsh plastic. He had never felt cashmere before, never shopped in the sort of stores that would sell it but Lecter certainly did. Indulging himself in all the expensive comforts of the world, a god of death and hedonism.

“Is that what this is?” Sutcliffe croaked, voice weak even as it dripped with something foul and acidic, pale face drawn into a look of utter contempt. He was watching them, half-lidded gaze taking in the sight before him, Lecter bowed as he sealed the amputation sight, Will resting his head against his shoulder. “I’d ask if you let all your doctors fuck you but I guess not. Chilton wouldn’t hate you so much if he had a turn.”

The stool clattered noisily as Will lurched forward, lips raised to reveal a snarl. The tension snapping, a rubber band pulled too taut, and his gloved hands slipped into Sutcliffe’s mouth, gripping each row of teeth in either hand and giving it a sharp tug.

He was going to rip his mouth open, tear his jaw apart until it distended and fell to his chest. Hear each bone as it splintered and cracked, hear the wet snap of muscle pulling from skin. Feel him breaking apart beneath his hands.

“Will.”

His hands stilled, holding the mouth wide open to reveal the dark cavern below, teeth smeared with blood and tongue lolling lazily to the side. He looked over his shoulder, blinking at Lecter.

“If this is what you want to do, I will not stop you. But if this is an impulsive act that will upset your original intentions for this evening, then I’d like you to reconsider,” he said simply, glancing up at Will with a neutral face. As if he wasn’t urging Will to debate the merits of his actions, ready to sweep the tools aside so he could watch Will tear into a man with animalistic ferocity.

Teeth dug into his fingers, and he swallowed harshly, chest heaving with his breaths at the sudden surge of adrenaline. Too many hormones flooding his system to think correctly, contorting with the hate and rage and _humiliation_.

He glanced down at Sutcliffe, eyes squeezed shut as his jaw was pulled open too far past comfort yet just shy of breaking, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He hadn’t suffered enough, Will decided, pulling his hands free and stepping back.

Sutcliffe groaned, mouth closing slowly- his own blood smearing his lips.

Will sat stiffly back on his stool, watching as Sutcliffe clenched and unclenched his jaw, working the strained muscles. “I want to cut out his tongue,” he said, voicing the thought as it came to him. Not taking the time to savor and consider it the way he normally would have.

Lecter nodded. “We will. Now,” he said, setting down the suturing tools as he gave Sutcliffe a look of faux regret. “My apologies, Donald, but I’m not pleased with my work. You don’t mind if I start over, do you?”

Sutcliffe whimpered as Lecter began tugging the thread through the inflamed skin in reverse, beginning the painful process anew.

~x~  
  


The knife slid in a slanted arch down the cutting board, Will’s hands unsteady as he diced the onion. He was trembling with the surge of adrenaline, ignited and ready to combust. He felt inebriated, power and control a heady cocktail that made his head swoon, simultaneously too heavy and featherlight all at once.

He was beginning to regret this request- he wanted to descend back into the basement. Wanted to drink in more of those pathetic cries and pained whimpers. As if he were famished and the suffering of Sutcliffe beneath him was a banquet.

“If you’re just going to butcher it, I’ll do the prep work,” Lecter sniffed, glancing over at Will’s uneven handiwork. He had traded in the plastic suit for his apron, just as Will had done with the smock splattered with bloodstains. Different uniforms for different tasks. It took more restraint than Will cared to admit, not reaching out to brush his fingers along the fabric of his sweater.

Will shrugged, unconcerned by the nuances of the dish. “It’s made from a pig and it’s fit for one too,” he answered, eyes glancing to his side to catch Lecter’s reaction.

“That’s hardly a reason to punish the food,” he said, a soberness to his tone even as his eyes sparkled, delighting in the banter between them.

“What should I do then?” Will huffed with an impatient sigh, dropping the knife to the counter where it clanged noisily.

“Why don’t you select the bottle of wine?” Lecter said, hands working a wooden spoon through the ground meat mixture in the bowl before him. Spices and herbs integrating with the protein.

Will rose a crooked brow. “You’re giving him wine?”

“Of course. It’s his last meal, it’s only polite,” he said, and Will narrowed his eyes at him, dragging his fingertips across the counter as he slowed his walk to the pantry. He was entirely serious, his manners and etiquette less a facet of his disguise and more an honest sliver of truth slipping through the stitching.

“You kill them because they’re rude, don’t you?”

Lecter did not immediately answer, not once looking up from the meatball mixture before him. Will was uncertain if it was a ploy, a tactic to destabilize Will by seeming so nonplussed by the analysis, or if Lecter was avoiding Will’s gaze for another reason. A less manipulative one that seemed to close to humanity to fit within the crafted shell of the man before him. Finally, he said, “Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me. We are all set loose into this world with the expectation that offering respect and kindness shall grant us the same in return. Those who do not follow those expectations are undeserving of it,” he answered.

It seemed an outlandish justification for what was a shaky motivation at best. Rudeness was a matter of opinion, a misinterpretation. A bad day resulting in slackened etiquette.

“You must have wanted to kill me and my dad a hundred times then,” he said, considering his own less than proper manners, earned from his father.

“I don’t want to kill you, Will,” Lecter said, too quickly for it to be a lie. Or at least, an unprepared one.

He tilted his head. “And my dad?”

Lecter was slower to answer this time. “Ambivalent would be the word.”

Will snorted. “Is that how you categorize people then? Those you want to kill, those you don’t and miscellaneous?” It was an insulting concept, these constructed boxes. There was something almost petty about, and it might have been a humorous notion if it didn’t leave behind vacuum-sealed packs of meat in Lecter’s cooler.

“For what it’s worth, the _want to_ category is a small one. Though the _don't_ one is the smallest,” he said.

Will turned abruptly on his heel, disappearing into the pantry to avoid saying anything further. It was a suitable if obvious escape from the conversation- a less suitable one for the reality that came crashing down with the admission.

Lecter would not kill him because Will understood him; stood beside him in his kitchen and his basement as they worked over dismembered and bloodied limbs and sauteing meat. Will filled loneliness in him, a dull ache he probably hadn’t even realized existed until Will relieved it. He wouldn’t kill him, because he wanted someone to share this with.

To continue to share it with.

It was unsettling- more so than the sight of severed hands and the feel of a bone saw in his grasp had been. He thought once more of _folie a deux,_ of the divisions that sat below the term. _Folie imposee_ where a dominant and delusional partner impressed themselves on the brain of the other, their illness spreading like a viscous gas and dragging the other with them. Forcing their worst selves to be absolved by the other. An argument made that if not for their influence, the other would have traipsed through life unheeded.

The second was _Folie simultanee_ , two equally delusional and diseased beings finding each other and sharing their assorted illness like knives or scalpels passed in the empty space between them. Triggering the worst selves in each, monsters searching for identical monsters who accepted their brutality.

It was hard to not think of his brain, more impressionable than most. Still as plastic and pliable as it was when he was a toddler. When others grew and developed into their own he was unable to do so; too busy becoming the _own_ everyone else around him became.

He wanted to kill Sutcliffe, and he knew he would enjoy it.

He couldn’t blame Lecter for that- he didn’t put that there.

But how much of everything else that came with it was his own? What was just a reflection of the man before him, sculpting Will so that their madness mirrored each other?

He pushed the thoughts away, shoved them within the folds of his brain. It was too confusing, pulling the threads of themselves apart to decipher who was who. The knowledge that he was safe from death only because a serial killer was _fond_ of him.

He swallowed, the sound thick in the pantry and he realized he had stalled for too long. He gave the thought of wine only a passing consideration before deciding it was too absurd to think of which one paired best with human flesh and grabbed a random bottle off the shelf.

He returned to the kitchen, just as Lecter was cooking the meatballs, fat sizzling as it rendered on the hot pan. Will set the bottle on the counter before retrieving three wine glasses and the bottle opener he had seen Lecter use.

He poured three glasses, overfilling them, and plucking the most full one for his own as he took a sip. It was a white wine, and his palate was not refined enough to know what sort simply from the taste but it was dry and his lips pulled at the bitterness. Still, he took another sip, handing Lecter a glass of his own.

He accepted it with a thanks and a small smile that faltered when he took a sip.

So, not the right wine to pair with this particular protein, evidently.

His glass was drained by the time the meatballs had finished cooking- small, bite-sized portions ladled with the simple sauce Lecter made. He glanced away when Lecter sampled one, tines of a fork slipping through the meat and his stomach churned, bubbling with wine and nausea. He busied himself with arranging the tray until Lecter strode to the pantry door, crouching down to lift the door to the basement.

It was odd, how much steadier he felt in the basement than he did in the kitchen now. The realization of Lecter’s desire to keep him around unmooring him like a boat lost at sea, the night sky blank of all stars and the natural map of constellations to guide him home. He was uncertain how much of him delighted in the torture, and how much of it was Lecter, but he felt sturdy in that delight as Sutcliffe _flinched_ at the sound of them descending the steps once more.

“You’ve had quite the evening, Donald. I’m certain you’ve worked up a tremendous appetite,” Lecter began, pulling on his plastic suit once more. “Luckily for you, Will was kind enough to make you something to eat.”

Sutcliffe scoffed. “I don’t want it,” he muttered, ignoring Will as he approached the surgical bed, tray of food in hand.

“You can do it willingly,” Will whispered, blinking slowly as Sutcliffe flicked his gaze to him. “Or I can force you. Is it really worth the fight?”

He pinched his eyes closed, the protruding knot in his throat bobbing with a slow nod. “Fine,” he relented, and Will rose the fork, plucking a meatball and raising it to his lips. Sutcliffe hesitated, lips trembling before parting, letting Will settle it on his tongue.

He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. As if drawing out the inevitable, prolonging his own feast to prolong his death. He swallowed, sighing when Will brought another portion to his mouth but eating it all the same.

He didn’t protest until the fifth forkful, steadying his breath and measuring his words so they were neither hostile nor a plea. “Please...I’m going to be sick.”

Will pursed his lips. “One more,” he said, nudging the meatball against his lips, messy with spit and blood and sauce.

“Why do you care that I eat?” he asked, words tilted, strung in the hysteria that came with being so completely at the mercy or cruelty of another. He accepted the final bite though, and Will set the plate down on the tray, raising a cloth napkin to dab at his mouth.

He shrugged as he said, “You’ve calmed down now. So I’m giving you your hands back.”

The chewing came to a sudden end, jaw slung low mid-bite, and Will clamped his mouth closed, sealing the food inside as he flailed sluggishly in his restraints, tried desperately to spit the meat out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, self-care is drinking water and going for a walk. Sometimes, it's taking baths and having a piece of cake.
> 
> Sometimes, it's brutally torturing pedophiles. All of these are valid. 
> 
> Sorry, it's a two-parter guys but I think Will really deserves this, and if it takes two chapters for him to have his revenge than so be it.  
> Next chapter: Will finally lives up to the Murder part of Murder Baby, and proud Murder Daddy is proud.


	25. Slaughterhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is sort of a mixed bag of things going on here. We got some more torture, a lot of angst, and a lot of stuff I think (hope?) you all will enjoy. But it’s a pretty loaded chapter. Just shy of 8000 words!
> 
> Also, a lot of vegetarians came out of the woodwork the last chapter and I just wanted to let y’all know I get it! I haven’t eaten meat in sixteen years! This whole fic is pretty much sponsored by food network at this point.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Slaughterhouse**

Sutcliffe was cut open, skin flayed and revealing the arching bones of his ribs beneath, organs pulsing and wriggling, undulating with life.

For now, Will corrected, trailing a gloved finger across the bow of a rib. He wanted to rip the gloves off, wanted to feel the bones and blood and soft tissue. Commit the sensation of it to memory, etching it within the lines of his fingerprints.

He would have to make do, though, splaying his palm so all the fingers were spread and fluttering his touch down the rib cage. He slipped his fingers under the sternum, cartilage thick as it bound the structure together. Sutcliffe was slipping back and forth between consciousness now, his only words garbled in spit and pain.

It wouldn’t be much longer, Will knew. His hand dug inside the wet cavern, organs trembling around him at his touch. Though he was emptier now than when they began, missing a kidney and part of his liver. They didn’t look healthy enough, and his health was _important_ to Will.

Sutcliffe’s mumbled apologies did not inspire the mercy he thought they might, sparking only a deeper rage that made Will reach within him and squeeze the first thing his probing fingers found. He wasn’t _sorry_. Sorry meant regret- it meant the acknowledgment of wrongdoing. It meant repentance, contrition, and confessions spoken through the slats of wooden booths.

_Sorry_ was not bred from selfishness. Because he now understood what it was to be stripped and vulnerable. Small. He wasn’t sorry because of sincere regret or concern but because now he was the one to suffer. He should be thanking Will for only dealing him a single night of suffering instead of the eight years worth given to him. Eight years he would never get back, that would drag and sit around his neck like a necklace made of chains.

Will hoped he felt hollowed out. Hoped he felt every invasive touch of Will’s or Lecter’s hands as they dug through his spread open torso. He hoped he felt cavernous, as if his organs were shifted and he would never be whole again. Pieces of himself missing, ripped from him by greedy hands.

He hoped the prison created by his ribs felt tight and too full, the way Will’s did; stuffed with every single word he could not say sitting like heartburn.

“I don’t suspect our guest will be with us for much longer,” Lecter said, leaning across the splayed body that sat between them. “And I believe you wanted to cut out his tongue.”

Will leaned back in the stool, gaze settling on Sutcliffe’s face. Drained of all color aside from the blood smearing his lips, wet with spit. His eyes were half-open, tears long since dried up and forming itchy trails down his cheeks. He was awake now, eyes shifting beneath the lowered lid to follow Will’s movements, a shuddering breath shaking through him as Will pulled his hand back out.

“I want to... _rip_ it out,” he said, knowing that it was cruder than what the Ripper would do. That it would be a sharp veer in pathology but wanting it desperately. There was satisfaction in this torture, in the routine performance of surgery.

But his fingers itched with a desire to be brutal. Less refined.

He wanted to be every bit the monster he felt he was, something dangerous stirring in his chest.

Tools clattered as Lecter shifted the tray aside, scooting his feet across the floor as he moved in his stool so he was sat at Sutcliffe’s head instead of at his side. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, looking for all the world like a man waiting for an opera to begin. For the curtains to close in and the lights to be lowered. “Than by all means. Rip it out,” he beckoned, extending a hand with the palm up to the ceiling, fingers brushing on Sutcliffe’s jaw. His eyes were bright with unrestrained joy, sharpened points of his teeth cutting between the slivers in his smile.

Will stood from his chair, swallowing roughly. Sutcliffe followed his movements, his face expressionless. Resigned with his fate- perhaps welcoming it even. The quiet nothingness of death a solace to him now, making Will almost reluctant to offer it. It felt too much like kindness. Too much like mercy.

He simply hoped that Hell was real and he was sending Sutcliffe there, partially formed and hacked apart with a belly full of his own greed.

Sutcliffe’s lips parted, the words that came from them a thin, strangled whisper and Will had to lean forward, tilt his head to hear him.

“I should have let Chilton fry your brain.”

Will smiled, face pulling into a grimace as he straightened his spine, hands slipping into the mouth once more to clasp either side of his jaw. “Yes, you should have.” And he ripped him apart.

There was a muffled scream, soon garbled by the blood that bubbled in his expanding throat. Bones creaked and groaned and _snapped_ with the force of his hands. When he could pull no more, the lower jaw loose and distended from his skull, he slid his hand inside the widened mouth. He clutched the wet muscle and grunted as he tugged with all the force he could muster and in one swift motion, it was detached and still in his hand.

Will's breath was ragged, sharp pants dragged from shallow lungs and the sound of his blood rushing in his ear was as riotous as the crashing waves of an ocean. The clap of thunder as the sky became roiling storm clouds. He felt like these things; like a force of nature. Destructive and powerful yet _natural_ in equal measure. A rightness to the hammering of his heart and the sensation of dragging someone to the edge of their life. Tossing them from a cliff and to the jagged rocks and waves below.

And he did drag Sutcliffe- his exposed chest rising and falling as he choked on the blood pooling in his throat. Drowning in himself and it felt poetic- beautiful, even- that he feasted on his own flesh and drank the sacrament of his own blood. A communion, purging him of his sins before death. A final rite.

Once, Will envied the stars for their explosive and powerful deaths that destroyed whole galaxies and thought it impossible that man could ever match such beauty, our own deaths so dragging and dull. But this one would surely rival all the dying stars, and he should be grateful to have been elevated above the drone of mechanical beeping and too-many wires.

He should have thanked Will for this. Thanked him for this death which was not pathetic like the death of so many.

Will could not decide where to settle his gaze- eyes flicking between Sutcliffe’s own to catch the moment life slipped from them and between the trembling lungs.

In the end, he decided he wanted to see him take his last breath, knowing he would never have such an opportunity again.

He watched the lungs expand before deflating, flat and soft and shrunken, offering one final rattle before silence settled like a blanket over top him.

It was the satisfaction he was searching for and his breath caught in his throat, eyes fluttering closed as he stilled for a moment. Stilled to allow the sensations to wash over him, to cool his warm and fevered skin. His head tipped back as if he could see the heavens and the stars above the ceiling with the metal hooks and halogen lights.

He sat like that as his breathing steadied, lungs no longing searching for gluttonous breaths to fill them. Heart slowing to a gentle march.

Slowly, he lowered his head back down, blinking his eyes open and to the scene before him. Sutcliffe dead, eyes still half-lidded but unseeing, glassy in the absence of life. A stillness that went deeper than his skin and muscles and into the organs below, quiet in the lack of blood flow.

“How do you feel?”

The question startled him, having almost entirely forgotten about Lecter in the rapture of the kill at his hand. He met his gaze, dark maroon in the low light of the basement and he swallowed thickly. “Quiet. I can’t...I can’t remember ever feeling this...calm,” he said.

“You have slain the monster,” he said, rising from his stool and taking slow, deliberate steps toward Will. His gaze fell to the man- _corpse-_ as he passed, an appreciative look on his sharpened face. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Immensely.”

Lecter grinned. “As did I.”

Something dripped, a steady disruption into the quiet, and Will glanced down to find that a stream of blood was spilling to the floor below. Pooling just before Will’s stool and before he understood what he was doing he was dropping to his knees, ripping the gloves from his hands and sinking them into the dark red puddle.

It was still warm.

His hands rose up, cupping together to catch the droplets that rained from the table below. The latex barrier gone now, he could feel the slick warmth of what he had done. The feel of blood settling into the lines of his palm, sinking like a river into the valley between canyons.

It was heady to finally feel the blood he craved for so long, to feel it slip in trailing beads down the slope of his wrist and know he was responsible for it. He was the reason blood pooled on the floor and coated his hands and it felt _righteous._

He felt like an outsider to himself, an observer and narrator of his own story but not a participant. Watching the scene shift and move before him as something primal compelled him to bring a blood-soaked hand to his mouth. His hand curled gently over his chin, the fingertips of his three center fingers brushing over his lips, thumb and pinkie smearing blood over his jaw.

His tongue darted out between pink lips, flicking tentatively over the digits held to his mouth. It tasted like the cold and bitter tang of copper and iron. Tasted like his own blood but different somehow. As if vengeance and justice and peace imparted with it delicate notes, like the wine Lecter plied him with that that carried with it different flavors and bouquets. He imagined what sort of flavors would be found if he collected it, took the time to swirl it within a bulbous glass, and develop all the complex notes. He shoved a finger into his mouth with a snarl, his body no longer his own. Or perhaps it was the most it had ever been his own.

Teeth dug into his knuckles yet he couldn’t seem to pull them back, swirling his tongue over the finger and lapping at the blood. Feeling the blood dribble down his throat.

A hand smoothed over his shoulder, Lecter crouching down beside him. “This is all I ever wanted for you, Will,” he said, the words a delicate whisper.

“It’s beautiful,” Will whispered back, finally pulling his hand away and glancing at the blood-stained palm and fingers- the center one clean and sticky with saliva. He turned his head to face Lecter as he added, “thank you.”

Lecter smiled, a warm gesture. A proper smile instead of the slim, facsimile of one he so often wore. It was still muted, tame by standard means but it shone in his eyes and inspired the ghostly imprint of crow’s feet to crinkle around a gaze that looked at Will with nothing short of reverence. It should have made him uncomfortable, made his skin feel as if it were crawling and shrinking over his bones. Making him feel stripped and vulnerable but it only added to the already heady inebriation swimming in his head.

Euphoria was the word that came to mind. He had felt it only once before when Matthew convinced him to try ecstasy but the high had been tainted. Overwhelmed by the rushing of his heart and the sharp and swift undercurrent of paranoia, the feeling of betrayal at his own body that swept over him when Matthew took advantage of his state.

It was not the same rush this time. It was clean and pure and he chased after the sensation, reveling in it. He reached a hand out, settling his palm to rest against the side of Lecter’s face, touching the sharp bones beneath the flesh. Something like realization tugged at him, tried desperately to pull at his mind taken hostage by the euphoric rush of emotions. He was smearing blood all over Lecter’s face, and he began to pull back, an apology readied on his tongue just as Lecter turned his head to his touch, lips brushing the palm and licking a slow strip across the flesh.

He shuddered at the warm tongue on his palm, at the sight of blood coating Lecter’s face like crude warpaint and he was overwhelmed in gratitude.

Lecter had arranged this moment because Will had tied his hands behind his back, wagered his freedom from a prison cell with Will’s freedom to live peacefully. But he enjoyed it, delighted in watching Will tear a man a part that so many others would wrongfully mourn. There was something wonderful in it, in having a hatred for another be so shared. Something grounding that made Will feel less alone in his hate and rage; less unstable in his desire to tear him apart. Less wrong.

He kept one hand cupped around Lecter’s jaw, the other splaying over his knee as he leaned forward. The brush of his lips to Lecter’s own was soft, a phantom kiss. A chaste pressing of the unclean, blood-stained lips, breath slipping between them and fanning against mouths. He did not pull away, nor did the kiss deepen any further, Lecter still beneath him. He felt Lecter’s gaze, half-lidded eyes watching him curiously, staring at the red mouth simply resting against his own.

He never initiated kisses- it was a level of intimacy he did not like to offer, having had it stolen from him too often to hand it over himself. But it seemed appropriate. The only way he could communicate his gratitude, hoping that Lecter would understand the message he was delicately pressing to his lips. His intentions were not romantic- it was not a consummation or an invitation or a kiss made in blood to seal their pact. He was simply thankful, galvanized by the idea that he wasn’t as alone as he once thought he had been; that his secret no longer needed to sour in his chest, poisoning him like a tumor.

They sat like that for several long, stretching seconds. The smell of blood thick and heavy between them and slowly Will sat back on his heels, uncertainty coming to him in increments. The adrenaline was fading, along with the dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and all the other chemicals that had burst to life like fireworks, manufacturing emotions, and hijacking his senses. In their fading absence was left the slow tremble of fatigued muscles, anxiety thrumming through him as reality fell in line and his cheeks colored in humiliation. Fear that Lecter might misinterpret him.

“I didn’t...I mean, I don’t want to...” he stumbled over his words, pinching his lips closed when Lecter rose a hand of his own to cup Will's cheek. Still gloved, the latex feeling powdery against his face.

“I know. And you’re welcome,” he said, and Will released a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding, deflating with the motion. Gratitude swiftly giving way to relief. He suddenly felt exhausted, a tension squeezed from his muscles. His gaze lowered, a silent request that Lecter understood. He wrapped his arms around him, sitting down and crossing his legs so he could pull Will into the cradle he created. The plastic was uncomfortable, though it was cool against his fevered cheeks and he sighed as he laid his head against the shoulder.

It shouldn’t have been as peaceful as it was; blood smeared between his smock and the plastic suit, drying to their faces and seeping towards them as it crawled through the grout. A body cut and broken and exposed above them as if an altar to some a righteous god.

Yet it was peaceful, and he tried not to examine it too hard, reveling in the still quiet of his mind for as long as it might last.

~x~

Too soon, Lecter was tapping his shoulder, pulling away from him slowly. “The window is small,” he said, sounding apologetic as Will shuffled to pull from his lap, rising to a slow stand. Lecter rose beside him, offering Will a lingering glance before adding, “Would you like to assist with this part?” He set a hand on the table, knuckles just shy of brushing against Sutcliffe’s head.

Will let his gaze fall to the man on the table, spread open like the diagram from one of Lecter’s medical books. His jaw clenched at the sight of his work, a dull ache at the base of his head. His mouth felt dry, and the long-sought-after quiet in his head was slowly giving way to _noise_. Memories that did not die with the man the way they should have and his stomach lurched.

He tried to blink them away, shaking his head. “No, I...I want to shower,” he said, raising his bloodied hands so that he could blame the desire to scrub and clean himself on the viscous and sticky fluid instead of something else. The memory of unwanted touches that burrowed into his skin like insects.

The basement felt suffocating, haunted by too many ghosts and he needed to leave. He swallowed, a painful motion given how dry and raw his throat felt.

Lecter gave him a considering look as if seeing through Will and he shifted his weight side to side until the other man finally said, “Alright. Dispose of your smock and wash your hands as best as you can for now.” He gestured in the direction of a utility sink, plastic-sheathed shoes knocking the locking mechanism attached to the wheels of the bed. He pulled the table away, steering it behind the plastic flaps where the noise from the refrigeration unit was the loudest.

Will did as was instructed, tossing the bloodied smock into a bin and washing his hands methodically. He stared at the water, watching as it changed from red to pink, white suds clearing away the evidence of what he had done. When his hands were suitably clean, he splashed his face, the water hot and scorching his skin but he enjoyed the tight feeling it left behind.

He pulled away when he was aware of Lecter standing in wait for him by the stairs, drying his hands and face off in a towel that sat beside the sink before joining him. They ascended the steps quietly, a quick diversion into the parlor where Lecter retrieved his backpack and held it as they went up another flight of stairs, uncharted territory to Will. The upstairs was no less grand than the downstairs, no more intimate despite containing the most intimate set of rooms and Lecter led him into the first door on the right, a hand flicking on the switch.

“This will be your room,” he said, leading Will into a space larger even than the master bedroom his dad slept in at home. The walls were a soft, dark gray aside from the one immediately opposite the door- painted a royal purple. Windows flanked either side of a queen-sized four-poster bed, dark and ornate wood forming the frame. Blossoms were carved into the headrest and footrest, etched vines crawling along the wooden poles at each corner. The bedding was pale cream, trimmed with silver lace and it looked inviting.

He imagined the sheets and mattress would be just as luxurious as every other thing Lecter owned and he hoped he would sleep so soundly even his nightmares would rest for the night.

Lecter set the backpack on an armchair, gesturing to a door on the left wall. “It has a private bath. I’ve already set out towels and toiletries for you. As well as a garbage bag for you to dispose of those clothes in,” he said, and once more Will felt a warm pull of gratitude. For the preparation of the more violent plans and of the other aspects.

It was yet another strange dichotomy of the man; he delighted in torment and cruelty yet delighted in nurturing in equal measure. He recalled the words he had said to him in the kitchen. _We are all set loose into this world with the expectation that offering respect and kindness shall grant us the same in return. Those who do not follow those expectations are undeserving of it._

He punished those he saw undeserving of it, yet rewarded those he deemed worthy with an overabundance of it. If Will was worthy of making the small list of those he did not want to kill than surely he was worthy of this kindness.

It was...a strange feeling. Powerful; not in the same way violence was powerful but just as strong. Receiving the vulnerability of another was a gift, a loaded gun settled into hands you trusted not to wield it.

“Thank you,” Will said, the words stilted, an awkwardness pervading him in the wake of his kill. The euphoria had dissipated and he felt too full once more- his head congested, his ribs ready to burst.

“I’ll be up to check on you, but if you need anything you know where to find me,” Lecter said, hand curling on the doorknob. He stood in the doorway for a moment, narrowing his eyes at Will as he said, “Unless you need me now?”

He shook his head, curls bouncing with the jerky movement. He was fine, really. Just overwhelmed and he was certain a shower and some sleep would reset him. He would awaken to a new world- a new reality that would be kinder to him. Free and unrestrained, the humiliation and fear a forgotten hold on him.

Lecter seemed dubious but nodded anyway. “Very well, then.”

He took his time leaving, as if giving Will a chance to change his answer. But eventually, the door closed and Will was left alone.

~x~

He stood in front of the mirror, examining his own face as if he were a stranger. As if searching for something changed- a freckle that had not been, a visible fracture revealing how close he felt to shattering. His reflection was something he avoided, the sight evoking a well of emotions he did not like to linger with. Self-loathing spurred not by the appearance- which was well enough, he supposed, if a bit tousled- but with what sat underneath. The thing living in his skin.

Sometimes he would fall into a spiral when he examined himself so closely, wondering _why_. What about him inspired such an abhorrent sort of greed? Had he done something? Offered himself without realizing it? Was there something he could have done differently? Was it him specifically- his own traitorous features leading furtive hands? Or was he simply convenient? Young and unstable and vulnerable?

Which was worse?

The spiral dragged him to places he didn’t like to go, and so he simply avoided his reflection. But he stared at it now, hoping that the sight of it might inspire something else. That the reflection of a killer would bring with it confidence and certainty. The sight of the dried blood he missed in his perfunctory cleaning a badge of honor, a reminder that in the bitter end of it all, _he_ was the one he held the power.

It did, for a moment.

But eventually, the image shimmered, shattered into fragments and he choked back a sob as he ducked into the shower. Hoping he could scrub away at the tainted layers of himself, peel back the bruised skin to reveal something beneath. Something stronger and better and less _him_ beneath the layers. The washcloth- foamy with an expensive amber bottle of body wash- pulled and tugged at his skin but it wasn’t abrasive enough, the soap not corrosive enough. He used his hands, dragging his nails down his skin.

Angry, red lines formed along his pale skin, stinging with the heat of the shower; small beads of blood appearing like pinpricks down some of the arches. Shallow cuts obscuring his deeper scars as if taunting him. Reminding him that no matter how hard he dug, he wouldn’t find what he was searching for.

It wasn’t _fair._

Sutcliffe was dead.

Will had killed him. Cut his hands and helped Lecter carve the meat and push them through the grinder. Had dragged the scalpel in a Y shape across his chest to peel the skin back- held the forceps that pulled the muscle back. Dug his hand into his chest, touching him as deeply as one could invade another.

Had even had the perverse delight of manually breathing for him when he lost consciousness and failed to breathe on his own, denying him such a smooth slip into death.

It wasn’t fair that even dead and being cut and harvested several floors below him he still had the power to reduce him. It wasn’t _fair._

He crouched to the floor of the shower, embracing his legs and burying his face in his knees. The air was thin this low, the steam from the too-hot water suffocating him. He hoped that it would ground him, pain and dizziness dragging him from the clutches of memories that should be insubstantial but were now all-consuming.

Flashes of things that wouldn’t die as easily as Sutcliffe had.

He gave a dry, bitter laugh that echoed off the slate walls of the shower, drowned out by the sound of water beating noisily around him. As if he was stuck in a storm, flooded from the heavens. He had cut and butchered and fed the hands he despised so much and yet it was not enough to clear them from his memory.

It was foolish of him really, to think one memory might be strong enough to displace thousands of others.

By the time he dragged himself from the shower, the water ran cold- had been running cold, for however long he couldn’t say as the realization was slow to dawn on him. His skin was red and scratched and wrinkled and he shivered against the tiles, reaching for the thick towel Lecter had left for him.

It was huge, large enough that he could wrap it over his shoulders and still feel modestly covered. Which he did, finding the act of dressing to be too arduous a task, slipping from the bathroom and into the bed without so much as toweling off his hair so that the silk pillowcase was immediately sodden beneath his head.

He was right- the sheets were soft in a way he never thought sheets could be and the mattress was plush yet firm and he skewed his eyes shut, hoping sleep would pull him soon. He preferred nightmares to memories because they were at least distorted; borrowed images that he could convince himself were not his own. He could blame the abstract nature of his subconscious instead of himself and his own broken brain, handled one too many times.

The room was dark and cool, the pillow quickly becoming uncomfortably wet. His breaths were heavy in the space, just shy of gasping and it wasn’t _fair._ He wanted to march downstairs and tear Sutcliffe apart even further- pop each finger off and cut him with a knife until he was unrecognizable. As if doing so would ease the pressure in his chest, clutching the brief reprieve he found after Sutcliffe’s last breath once more.

Was that it, then? Was that the only moment of peace and quiet he was allowed before his brain festered with the rot once more? Memories like maggots?

It was...unsatisfying and he wanted to scream into the wet pillow but settled for grunting instead.

There was a knock on the door, and he scowled, not wanting to see Lecter anymore.

Too bitter in the knowledge that he was right and killing Sutcliffe- _while wonderful_ \- was not enough.

He didn’t answer, hoping he would think him asleep and leave him alone.

He was not surprised when the door opened anyway, spilling golden light from the hallway into the darkened room. “Will?” he asked, and for several seconds, he considered not answering, still clinging to the fallacy of sleep.

Lecter would know, though. He sighed, trying to steady his voice. “Yes?”

“I have something for you. May I turn on the light?”

Will didn’t move from his side, towel still wrapped over his shoulders and blanket clutched in the fists tucked under his chin. “Sure.”

The light flicked on, shadows chased away and Will blinked at the wall opposite him, listening to the sound of Lecter moving through the room. Something was set down on the bedside table, clattering noisily and it was then that Will smelled something warm. The sweet smell of rosemary and thyme and he shifted onto his other side, making sure to stay hidden by the covers.

A tray sat on the table, a bowl of soup at the center. A slice of bread- sourdough, he thought, smelling the tang and yeast from where he lay- was placed beside it. An orange and a slim box of sesame crackers sat beside a glass of milk and a bottle of water, which Lecter carefully pulled from the tray and set on the table- leaving only the soup and bread on the tray.

“What is it?” he asked, voice small. He wasn’t hungry, too full from the memories and words that curdled in his gut.

“Braised beef stew in a wine broth reduction with carrots, potatoes-”

Will narrowed his eyes. “What _is_ it?”

Lecter blinked at him once. “His heart and tongue.”

Will said nothing, letting his gaze slant back to the dish, steam billowing from the bowl. There it was once more, that perverse nurturing Lecter offered. A tried and true cure for all maladies, there was something healing about soup. Nourishment within the rich broth and savory bites of meat. He thought of all the times he was sick as a child, his dad staying home to make him soup, crunching crackers into the broth that became soggy too soon.

He supposed this was Lecter’s attempt to heal a different sort of sickness.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Lecter said after a moment, adding, “but I have some sleep aids for you and they shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach so you should at least have some milk and the orange.”

“Why’d you make it?” he asked, his tone curious rather than hostile. It was presumptuous of him, considering how Will reacted the last time he cooked for him. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed watching Will vomit and destroy his possessions.

“I thought you might enjoy the taste of victory,” he answered simply.

Will sighed, finally sitting up in bed. He pinched the towel at his chest, as he moved, obscuring his bare chest as much as he could. “It doesn’t taste as good as I thought it might.”

“Ah,” Lecter said. He strode through the room, pulling a chair from the desk and setting it beside the bed. He sat down, smoothing out the seams in his trousers, before crossing his legs. “Victory has many different tastes. Bitterness, sweet, sour. It is not a one-note dish and one must learn to appreciate all the flavors that come together in balance. Do you regret it?”

“No,” Will answered, though he was certain Lecter already knew he didn’t, cheeks coloring as he recalled pressing his lips against his. “I just...stupidly thought it would all go away.”

“It will. In time,” Lecter said, a confidence in his assurance that Will envied. “I believe you are now presented with an opportunity to seek the help you need without the traumatic procedure that might have followed should accusations have been made while he was alive.”

Will rose his brows, scoffing. “You mean...talk about it?” He sneered at the thought, face crumpling. It was humiliating enough that Lecter knew, unable to stop himself from wondering what Lecter thought of it. He was a child when it started but he certainly wasn’t now and maybe he judged Will for that- not understanding that he still felt so small and mistaking it to for acceptance. “Yeah, that’s exactly the sort of thing I want to discuss with Chilton. And I’m certainly not talking to you about it.”

Lecter was unbothered by the implicit slight against him, tilting his head to the side. “I won’t force your hand, I can only offer my professional suggestions. In killing Sutcliffe, you took back a great deal of power. But he will always have power over your mind unless you take that back as well. Regrettably, that tends to be a more laborious task than murder, but not impossible. And I’m certain you will be just as exquisite at that as you were at this,” he said, and Will blushed at the praise, gaze falling to his lap.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbled, trying to think of what might happen if he told Chilton or his dad- or even Doctor Bloom. He was right- it would be easier now knowing there would be no trial to follow, no chance that Will would cut himself open just for him to walk free. But it still brought with it things he could not stomach. Pity or judgment- disbelief, even.

“Would you like to try the soup, Will?”

Will glanced up at him, gaze slipping between the man before him and the bowl of soup. He thought of the memories that bit into him, consumed him and he offered a slow nod. There was something poetic about it, he thought as Lecter stood to grab the tray, setting it over Will’s lap and shuffling his chair closer as he sat down once more. The heart and tongue.

Lecter had chosen those on purpose, selecting the organs and parts he served with the same consideration he did his tableaus.

Lecter picked up the spoon, ladling a sizable scoop before raising it to Will’s lips, his other hand below it to capture any broth that might spill in the travel. Will’s eyes were downcast as he glanced at it, blinking once at the unassuming serving of soup before opening his mouth, letting Lecter feed him.

The… _meat_ was tender. Soft enough that he hardly had to chew before swallowing, feeling the warmth sidle down his throat and into his belly. Lecter set the spoon down on a napkin on the tray, rising from his seat and pointedly looking anywhere but Will. An invitation he could accept or deny.

The towel slipped from one shoulder as he reached for the spoon, twirling it once so it refracted the light of the room. He slipped it into the bowl, bringing another spoonful to his mouth. It was delicious, and he was wondered if it would taste as good if it were served in another situation. If it was as delicious as it was because it tasted like vengeance. Like masticated justice.

He ate quietly as Lecter disappeared from the room, returning minutes later with a new pillow and a folded pillowcase that he set at the end of the bed. He then moved to the same chair he had deposited Will’s backpack in before, unzipping it and finding the packed set of pajamas Will brought with him. He refolded them before placing them beside the new pillow.

He moved slowly, giving Will time to eat his fill, and when he was done- only a few diced pieces of carrots and potatoes left in the bowl- Will sat back against the pillows, letting the spoon clang noisily in the almost empty bowl. Lecter said nothing as he collected the tray- a show of restraint, Will surmised, as he imagined he was practically mewling with smug delight. He disappeared once more, longer this time as he returned the dishes to the kitchen and Will reached for the bottle of water, taking a long sip.

  
The flavor of the meat was thick on his tongue and he dragged it over the roof of his mouth.

When Lecter next returned, it was with an orange pill bottle in his hands, unscrewing the cap and shaking one into his palm that he offered to Will. “It will help you sleep. As well as alleviate some anxiety,” he explained, though Will was already tossing it back before he finished the sentence.

Perhaps he should be concerned with how willing he was to accept pills from this man, but just as with many other thoughts, he shoved it away for later.

“Are you going to...display him now?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Tomorrow night,” Lecter answered. “It’s too close to morning to chance it. And I think a Christmas day reveal will be a wonderful bookend to this _sounder_. Have you made any changes to your design?”

Will shook his head. “No just...curious when it will happen.” Bracing himself for the fallout, preparing for the lies and charade he would have to fall into like a second skin. He licked his teeth, anticipating the moment the news would travel. There was something thrilling to it, knowing he could watch the horror unfold around him. Bearing witness to the emotions his work would evoke. He wondered if he would be invited to the funeral; if he might hear the whispered words people would say when the family was too busy grieving on the other end of the room to hear the gossip.

Lecter nodded, slipping his hands and the pill bottle into his pocket. “Are you alright if I make some additions, then? To ensure there will be no question it’s a Ripper design. I promise the integrity of your design will not be compromised.”

Will shrugged, pulling the blankets up further. It wasn’t as if he would see it- his displays were never made public. Whatever he did was a love letter from him to the FBI agents scrambling to uncover the man standing before them. He could only hope that whatever alterations Lecter planned to make did not involve the lock of hair he snatched from his head.

“Very well. I’ll leave you to get some rest, then. If you need me, my room is at the end of the hall. Good night, Will.”

“Good night,” Will said back, shuffling down the bed to grab the folded pajamas left for him, waiting until the door closed to dress.

He set the sodden pillow aside, pulling the fresh one with him and resettling into bed, tongue running over his teeth and chasing the lingering taste of meat.

~x~

It was nearly five in the morning by the time Hannibal finally settled into bed, thankful for the late-rising sun that came with the winter, ensuring at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before the light became too much. He was only human after all, and even though the evening sustained him for far longer than otherwise, he still enjoyed the luxury of sleep.

He felt not unlike a cat; lazy and content after a successful hunt, stretching out in his bed the way a cat might stretch out in the beam of the sun’s rays.

He bore witness to Will’s becoming, and it was every bit as stunning as he imagined it would be. Calculated and measured, feral and savage. Shifting within his own duality to become multiple beasts to the man who his mind turned into a behemoth. He savored the memories like a fine wine, playing the moments over in his head and already considering which ones to commit to the pages of his sketchbook.

He had seen Will fall to his knees in supplication to the destruction his own hands could do, covered in blood and tasting it as if he were famished for the fruits of his labor. Had seen the rapturous look on his face when the lungs gave their final death rattle and blood spilled from either side of Sutcliffe’s mouth. Had watched him rip that very mouth apart.

He did not watch but he heard each clink of the spoon as he ate the soup, teeth tearing into the flesh and it was so much more satisfying than it had ever been before. Where once he delighted in the ironic ignorance, he now found another delight- a kinder, softer one- in the awareness that did not heed the thoughtful chewing. The soft hums of appreciation that he doubted Will was even aware he was making.

He had been prepared, of course, for the fall that would follow the euphoric rush. The inevitable plummet when Will realized that not even death could pull the roots the sat in his brain, planted there by the man he cut down so wonderfully. But he was hopeful that this Will- this shrunken shadow of him- would fade in time. There was already progress- more than he anticipated. Will gifted him something rare this evening; trust. Openness. The feel of his head resting against his shoulder and the flutter of his lips against his own when he was so overwhelmed by the moment he had no other way to express it to Hannibal.

There was a horrific second where he thought Will would try once more to give himself to Hannibal in exchange for his help- this was the Will he wanted to slaughter, to bury in a shallow grave that would be plundered by scavengers. He was relieved- _thrilled_ \- when Will didn’t, the taste of his denial at that moment a sweet thing.

It was an action-filled with trust, placing his own wants above another for perhaps the first time in his life. Whether he understood it or not, it was progress. Finding confidence in the pieces of himself, discovering who he was. The memories might have felt too powerful for him to overcome but he overcame something in the wake of his kill.

Will would see it, in time.

It was with these thoughts in mind that he allowed his mind to rest, mingling with the thoughts of what may be in the days and months and years to come. Of the Will he could coax out, the true one that sat so heavily guarded. Envisioning the way he would hunt and kill, shifting between something sharp and restrained and something wild. He thought of the meals that might sit between, how much more delicious they might taste now with so many truths and trusts spared between them. He was nearly on the edge of the sleep- his brain warm and fuzzy in the promise of slumber- when he heard to soft clicking of his bedroom door.

He was awake in an instant, though he did not show it, making certain to keep his breathing even as his fingers flexed beneath his pillow, brushing over the handle of a scalpel. It would be a painful step back, though entertaining in its own right. He wondered if this was a possibility- that Will would use him for his help in killing Sutcliffe only to kill him when the deed was done. Tell the authorities that it was in defense and lead him to the basement he would claim he accidentally discovered. 

Will had a habit of underestimating him, and he would have only himself to blame for the blade that would plunge into him.

Maybe he would keep him. An extended guest he would seal away when he the very people looking for him as a suspected murderer came to dine with him. It was not a satisfying thought, but it was more satisfying than the thought of killing him. Though he detested the idea that Will saw the honesty Hannibal offered him as an opportunity to strike. That Hannibal confessing that he did not wish to kill Will was not seen as an assurance but a weak spot. It tasted like betrayal, bitter and putrid.

He held his breath as feet padded slowly across the floor- quietly, though not quiet enough. He slid his hand out from under his pillow, thumb uncapping the plastic safety cap. The mattress dipped with the weight, blankets rustling as Will settled down beside him, blanket stretching between. He was perched on the edge of the bed, far away enough that they didn’t touch, but he sighed contentedly, the sound soon followed by soft snores.

Hannibal slid the scalpel back under the pillow, deciding that perhaps they both had a habit of underestimating the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I tell you guys that the scenes depicted here will be the extent of their physical relationship. Not in a “fade-to-black” sort of way, but in a “they simply don’t move further than this point physically.” This story was intended to be more of a slow-burn love/ Will finding his agency fic than it was a smut one and given the age difference as well as Will’s trauma which makes it hard to truly consent (his age is a factor there as well) I felt that it was a limit Hannibal would not push (it would be rude, after all.) This decision was solidified by the Reunion Interview where the same idea was broached in that lucidity and consent would be an important qualifier in their relationship. I agree. 
> 
> This isn’t to say they will return to hating each other next chapter, just that the focus of their changing relationship is not going to be sexual or even necessarily romantic in the traditional sense. (It is love, though).
> 
> Hopefully, the other aspects of their relationship are satisfying enough, and I have been toying with the idea of maybe turning this into a series with some short story/ one-shots here and there. If I do, I will almost certainly write a story that would explore that with a more age appropriate and healthy Will. Murder Baby has to heal first! And Murder Daddy respects that! (He may be a cannibalistic serial killer, but he’s also a gentleman guys) And if smut is your thing, I have another Hannigram fic with smut that is just about to be finished (I just need to edit and upload the final chapter).
> 
> Anyway, next up: the morning after :)


	26. Reveillon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so pleased to see that most everyone seemed to agree with my endnote on the previous chapter and that so many of you expressed interest in seeing more of our Murder Baby/Daddy once this story has concluded. I will certainly add to this universe then, as I’ve grown rather attached to these alternate versions of my beloved idiots. And I think any smut that comes from these installments would be far more satisfying than if I forced it here. I’ve already edited this fic to be part of a series :)

**Chapter 25: Reveillon**

Hannibal awoke to the soft trilling of his cellphone, blinking slowly through several rings as his vision steadied and his senses came to him. The room was dark, golden light seeping through the seams of the curtain. Something warm was pressed against his back, a sensation unfamiliar enough that his mind was slow to recall the creaking of his door shortly after settling in for bed and the dip in the mattress. But it came to him, and his lips curled in a small smile as Will stirred against him, burrowing his face between his shoulder blades and muttering grumpily about the noise.

He was rather charming when he was half asleep and not hellbent on destroying Hannibal’s home.

With a sigh, Hannibal pulled away, Will startling awake as he slipped into the empty space created in his absence. Hannibal reached over to pluck his phone from where it sat, glancing over his shoulder to press a finger to his lips and shush softly to indicate Will stay silent. He blinked blearily at him, mumbling something indecipherable before turning on his side and pulling the covers over his head.

He glanced at the screen before answering, making certain to say the name aloud for Will’s benefit. “Good morning, William.” Will stilled beneath the covers, slipping them down enough to peer out at him.

“ _Good morning, Hannibal,”_ William greeted in turn, his standard exhaustion tugging down on his words and making his accent more prominent. _“I didn’t wake you, did I?”_

“Not at all,” Hannibal said, shifting onto his back. “I trust everything went smoothly with your work?”

“ _Yes, thank you. I should be there to get Will off your hands in two hours,”_ he said, wind creating a vortex as his truck sped down the highway. _“He wasn’t too much trouble, was he?”_

Hannibal slanted his gaze to look at Will, amusement writ on his face as he said, “I’m afraid he did get a little lost during a sleepwalking episode, but he managed to find his way back in bed without any issues.” Will scoffed at him, and he once more raised a finger to his lips to remind him to be silent. “Other than that it was an uneventful evening. We made some comfort food for dinner, I helped him study anatomy for his biology class and we even did some hands-on therapy exercises.” The glare Will offered him was equal parts disparaging and murderous, rolling his eyes at the listed itinerary.

“ _That’s good. I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate you taking him. He’s been so hostile lately, I couldn’t imagine bringing him with me to make the delivery. He would have jumped out of the truck before we even left the state,”_ William joked, the laughter faltering and stumbling until it petered into an unsatisfied sigh.

“I’m always happy to help, though I hope we can come up with a plan to get Will on the right path soon so that this particular help isn’t necessary,” Hannibal mused, adding, “Would you like to talk to him? I believe he’s still asleep but I can wake him-”

“ _No, that’s fine. He doesn’t sleep well so it’s best to let him get as much as he can,”_ he interrupted. _“I just wanted to check in and let you know I’ll be there in a few hours and we’ll be out of your hair so you can enjoy your holiday.”_

“Of course, thank you. We’ll see you shortly,” Hannibal said, turning the phone off a second later when William had returned the goodbyes. The moment he set the phone down on the table, Will snorted derisively.

“Really? Studied anatomy?”

Hannibal shrugged, a smile stretching wide with his good humor. He was an optimist by nature, approaching each day with a renewed sense of wonder at all the pleasures that may come to him in the next twelve or so hours spread out before him. But he was in a particularly good mood this morning, relaxed in a way he couldn’t ever recall being. Limbs stretching out leisurely, unencumbered by the narrow restraints of his person suit. He felt wholly himself, vulnerable in a way he never thought possible. A sweet weakness. “I’ve always had a fondness for words that walk the narrow tightrope between honesty and deception. And I would like to point out none of it was technically a lie,” he said, turning on his side to face Will, an eyebrow raised. “Technically, neither was the sleepwalking part I suppose. Or did you get lost on your way back from the restroom?”

Will scowled, a blush creeping up his collar, looking all at once uncertain by his decision to seek comfort in Hannibal’s bed in the middle of the night. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-” he muttered in his embarrassment, starting to shift out from under the covers only for Hannibal to stop him, pulling him against his chest and enfolding him in his arms. He stiffened at the touch for only a second before his muscles slackened, becoming heavy in the embrace.

The arm that was under Will curled upward, winding his fingers in his hair and playing with it loosely. Enjoying the softness created by the expensive products Hannibal set out for him, so unlike the drugstore brand he might normally use. The other arm simply draped over him, fingertips brushing over the small of his back. It was remarkable, the difference. So unlike the boy who flinched under a hand touching his shoulder to guide him to the door.

His trust was hard-won, but in the victory of it came someone startlingly affectionate. Desperate for a kindness that was tragically foreign.

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asked, receiving his answer in the form of pointed silence, a huff of air that fanned over his chest when Will scoffed. He picked up a strand of curls, twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “I trust you’re prepared? For the possibility you may come under suspicion until the Ripper gets his credit?”

Will nodded, pulling away slightly so his words weren’t muffled. His eyes glinted with something mischievous as he said, “you should know how good I am at lying.”

His mouth twitched into a restrained grin, edges tipping up like commas. “Excellent,” he said as he slowly, regretfully, pulled away from Will. “You’re father will be here in about two hours.”

Will started to rise, pulling himself up on his elbows, but Hannibal shook his head as he stood beside the bed, leaning over to pull the covers back up. “Get some rest while you can. I’m just going to shower and attend to some things in the meantime.”

He hesitated, though relented, grateful for the opportunity to sleep a little bit longer and slunk under the covers. Hannibal set an alarm for him before striding to his closet, selecting his outfit for the day. He would shower in the guest bath, he decided, not wanting to strain the building trust with Will.

It was a precious gift, one he understood the weight of and valued. A return for the rare gift that Hannibal had given him in exchange. He gave Will the chance to see him, to know him in a way that no other had been privy to before. Cutting off pieces of themselves and handing them to another.

Hannibal thought back to several months ago when he sat in his dining room, Alana beside him. He thought of how dull that evening had been, spiked momentarily at the mention of a referral. How dull all the evenings had been up until then, his life settling into something more of an existence. Bobbing on the open waters like a buoy. He enjoyed his creature comforts, sure- delighted in an opera or symphony and he certainly loved to host. But those were singular moments on a timeline that moved forward sluggishly. Too smoothly.

He arose each morning with optimism but often returned to bed with boredom from the day. Even the hunts and kills which were typically the high points of his weeks were turning into the drudgery of routine.

He was not so proud of a man to hide behind denial, and he understood the thing he felt was loneliness. A deep and pervading ache that would not be soothed in the way others soothed it. A loneliness bred from pretenses and the secrets he kept locked under the floor beneath his feet. He wanted to be seen and known- to see and know another in turn.

Wanted the applause of an audience, even if it was only an audience of one.

The past week since Will lured him to his office marked the first of many changes in his recently benign life. That he arose optimistically and turned to bed eagerly, anticipating the next day- and the one beyond that. And, further still, the one beyond that. And last night, as he settled into bed twice- the first alone and the second with Will sleeping soundly behind him- he fell asleep with something he might call satisfaction.

Dare he call it happiness?

When he thought of the days beyond that sat like a promise on the horizon, Will beside him in the basement and the kitchen and then the dining room, he had not considered the possibility of Will beside him in his bed. It seemed untoward, of course. Will was hardly in the right state of mind for such a thing, and all that aside, he was too young. Even the consideration of it made a repulsive shiver run down his spine, recalling the words that Will had hissed at him from across his dining room once more and his own resounding condemnation of them.

He was _nothing_ like Sutcliffe.

He was many things- harsh but accurate titles he wore like a crown upon his head. But he wasn’t _that._

He did not need to exert his power so pathetically, so crudely. And while lesser men might prefer a partner with a young, malleable mind and youthful visage- Hannibal was less inclined to the notion. He preferred someone with a certainty and confidence in who and what they were, not someone he carved them into. It was what made previous relationships unremarkable in the end. No one could keep up with him and the intrigue would fade unless he tried to imprint himself on their minds and by then the idea of romance had been tainted.

It was a shame that life had drawn them together this way- too many years and pain between them to make anything more than companionship a possibility. But he was not a greedy man by any means- he understood that sometimes there were limitations and that the best course was gratitude for all the things before that harsh line in the sand was drawn.

He did not need to have Will in such a way to appreciate him. Companionship was more than he ever thought he would have, and he would hardly turn his nose up at it. There was still a warmth to it, a startling depth of intimacy that would make the absence of it too cold now that he held it in his hands.

His ruminations set aside, clothes slung over his arm, he stepped back into the room, glancing at Will as he passed to the door. He was already fast asleep, lips parted and face smoothed in slumber, curls fanning over the pillow like a darkened halo.

He thought of another set of possibilities. Of a time when Will was older and more truly, wholly himself. When the shackles of his trauma were pried free and tossed aside and he had been given the space to grow into his own.

Hannibal would be content with companionship and companionship alone, but if Will offered another gift to him in that future, he would accept it with the same reverence he accepted this one of trust. He was only human, after all, and the thought of the sort of beauty he would grow into- sharper jaw and broader chest, wide eyes that held a gaze instead of averted it- was the sort of thing that inspired sonnets and a long-winded soliloquy. If Will offered such a gift to him then- requested it in turn- he would be powerless to deny him.

He was beginning to suspect, in a way that should have inspired contempt but instead brought warmth and intrigue, that there wasn’t a whole lot he wouldn’t do if Will requested it.

But the thought of such a gift being offered was simply that- a thought. A wonderful one, but one he would not entertain too fiercely. Too soon and too much to think of now. A lovely gift that he didn’t want at the moment- he wanted Will purely of his own desire or not at all. But he would accept it if it came in time.

He was an optimistic man, after all, and even he was not immune to the whims of hope.

~x~

Will was pulled from sleep three times- fingers fumbling and slapping a snooze button each time and rolling back over. By the third blaring beep, he groaned loudly, accepting that the day was to begin and finally turned it off, squinting at the device to find the right key before silencing it. He lay on his back for several minutes, blinking at the ceiling.

It felt not unlike waking in the middle of a dream, where the edges of reality blurred. He barely remembered slipping down the hall and into Lecter’s bed, and the thought that he had done so brought with it the familiar twinge of embarrassment. Like a child crawling into their parent’s bed to keep safe from the monsters that lurked in the cover of night. It struck him as indignant to the memory of the countless men and women that Lecter killed that Will sought him out for safety, considered him something just shy of comfort when he had not been the same for his victims.

A more insidious part of him that he tried to silence enjoyed it all the more for that very reason. As if he were given a place of honor to a man that did not bestow it often.

He felt special in a way that brought warmth instead of cold detestation and self-loathing.

He sighed, pulling himself up from the bed- _Lecter’s bed_ \- and shuffling quietly back to the room he had abandoned in the night to change.

His stomach coiled tightly, wondering when it might happen. The reveal of his work to the waiting world. He considered the responding shock he would give to the news, the sorrow and grief he would emulate for a man he was supposed to be close with.

His dad was friendly with him- he didn’t have many friends that Will knew of but he was friendly with Sutcliffe and there was the occasional contact between them outside of Will and his appointments. His dad would mourn the loss of him and his friendship and though it wasn’t fair, the thought made Will frown bitterly. Punishing his father for crimes he wasn’t aware he was committing.

He knew it was unreasonable, yet he could not reason with his anger.

He wondered if that, too, would go away in time or if it would gnaw at him, feast on his marrow, and crunch his bones until he collapsed to his knees.

Once he was fully dressed for the day, he grabbed his backpack- stuffed with unfolded clothes that would probably irritate Lecter if he saw it- and left the room, clasping the strap in his hands. The bag swung in his grasp as he sprinted down the stairs, blinking at the music that fluttered softly up to him, growing louder with each step down.

Orchestral, swelling within the walls of the grand home even if the volume was low. Another Christmas carol and Will skewed his lips, wondering if he would ever be able to hear such nostalgic notes without thinking about Lecter and hollowed angels and the feel of a limp tongue in his hand.

‘ _O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant. O come, o come ye to Bethlehem. Come and behold Him, born the King of Angels!’_

He followed the music down the corridor, passing through the kitchen and the wafting smell of brown sugar, cumin and cayenne. He stood outside the entrance to the dining room, Lecter and his dad glancing up at him as whatever conversation they had came to an abrupt end.

“Good morning, Will,” Lecter greeted, a knowing smirk tugging on his lips.

“Hey, Will,” his dad said, lowering a spoon that Will’s eyes followed the descent of, watching as it resettled into a bowl of what looked like chili.

‘ _O come, let us adore Him. O come, let us adore Him. O come, let us adore Him; Christ the Lord.’_

“You were still asleep, and it was lunchtime, so it only seemed polite to offer an invitation to your father to sit down for a proper meal after such a long night,” Lecter began, eyes sharp beneath the light of the chandelier and the string of bulbs that twirled around garland on the mantle of his fireplace. The festive décor stark against the twisted bones and portrait of Leda and the Swan. “He mentioned chili was one of your favorites and it sounded wonderful on a cold winter day such as this.”

“You should have some, Will,” William said, bringing the spoon to his mouth once more though pausing it just before his lips to add, “it’s delicious.”

Will blinked, gaze sliding between several points of focus. From his dad, nodding his head slowly in appreciation of the dish set before him, to the clumps of meat glistening with the wet sauce and then settling on Lecter’s near wolfish grin. He was staring intently at Will, watching for his response to the scene before him. Perhaps feeling pleased with himself, doling out his wicked brand of justice to the father whose ignorance failed his son.

‘ _O come, all ye faithful. O come, all ye faithful. O come, all ye to Bethlehem...’_

Will swallowed, pulling the seat opposite his father out and settling into it. There was an empty bowl and spoon laid out on the table setting, anticipating his arrival. He said nothing as he reached for the serving dish at the center of the table, ladling himself a generous portion of the food.

It wasn’t as if not eating it would change things, undo all the sins that sat like guests at the dinner table. Lecter’s, Sutcliffe’s and his own pulling out the remaining chairs and sitting like phantoms for the feast.

There was a tray beside it, triangular cuts of toasted cornbread and he wondered for a second if even that might contain pieces of the man. If Lecter added blood and meat to everything in his kitchen as if sprinkling salt to finish a meal. He thought of rendered fat poured in place of butter and surmised that yes, the entire spread before them was a grave. A private funeral. The kitchen like a morgue, the food laid out like a crime scene.

‘ _O, sing choir of Angels, sing in Exultation! O come, o come ye to Bethlehem, come and behold Him, Born the King of Angels.’_

“It’s good,” he said after chewing a careful bite, lowering his gaze to Lecter. “Thank you.”

He smiled, turning his gaze down to his own dish before him. It was as if they spoke a separate language, one only they could translate. Suspended and separate from the world around them, forever held in a snowglobe, encased in glass.

‘ _O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant. O come, o come ye to Bethlehem. Come and behold Him, born the King of Angels!_

_O come, let us adore Him._

_O come, let us adore Him._

_O come, let us adore Him._

_Christ the Lord.’_

~x~

Will and his dad returned home in relative silence, though the tension had eased some. Will felt lax in the seat and he even thumbed through the various radio stations as they drove. They chatted idly, sparse strands of conversations that led nowhere as William asked about the evening, Will offering a few quips about Lecter’s pretentious demeanor that pulled a small if wilting smile from his dad.

It was...not unpleasant.

Not quite good, not wonderful or meaningful. But it was better than the feel of his forehead vibrating painfully against the glass as he stubbornly refused to so much as see his father’s silhouette in his periphery. Better than the silence, broken only by sighs and teeth grinding together, words tipping and dying on mouths before they were even said.

Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, a contagious thing that softened the sharp edges of their relationship for a moment. Muting the building resentment and anger in favor of nostalgic joy. The holidays were never a particularly merry thing for Will, but they were content enough. He was not so much of a grouch that he was unaffected by the smell of fresh-baked cookies and the crinkle of colorful paper beneath his hands.

They arrived home after an hour and a half of driving- the traffic a nightmare as others strove to be home for Christmas- and the engine clipped off partway through a rendition of _Frosty the Snowman._ William stifled a yawn, a hand clamping over his mouth.

“I’m going to get some sleep if you’re okay?” he asked, turning to look at Will.

He nodded, pulling the truck door open and dragging his backpack with him. “Yeah, I’ve got some homework I can do.”

William hummed, tapping his fingertips against the wheel as he glanced out the windshield. He didn’t look at Will as he said, “You know, I was thinking...it’s been a while since we’ve done a proper _reveillon_ for Christmas. I know we stopped shortly after we moved up here because it didn’t seem worth the effort for just us and nobody else did it but maybe we should get back into it.” He finally turned to Will, his face pulling into a wistful smile that did not hide the sadness sitting beneath the surface. Will’s heart clenched at the sight, and he turned his gaze to stare at the house only a short walk away, chewing his lips. “It used to be your favorite tradition when you were little because you got to wake up in the middle of the night. And you’ll be able to help this time- show off some of the cooking skills Hannibal’s been teaching you.”

Will swallowed thickly, shrugging his shoulders. “Do we even have anything for it? Wolf Trap isn’t really known for their expansive grocery selection.”

“I’ll go to the store after I get a nap,” William said. “Might not be as traditional as it would be back home, but we can cobble together something. Besides, the food itself isn’t really the point of _reveillon_.” His accent was thicker as it curled around the French word, bringing with it the memory of a childhood that seemed all but forgotten, hazy like a dream. Before his grandparents passed and his dad decided to move one evening, unable to stand the ghosts of his family that sat on the corners of the street- embedded in the culture so that it and the grief were indistinguishable from one another. His grandparents and the mother he never met haunting them so much that William just...left. Tried to start over and hoping the ghosts would lose his trail.

The memories smelled like warm spices and the brine of the bayou where he first learned how to fly-fish.

He blinked them back, raising a hand to scratch at his head as he asked, “You’re not also going to drag me out of bed for Midnight Mass again, are you?”

William laughed, a sound that made Will flinch in its irregularity. “No, I promise. That was more your grandmaw’s thing, anyway. I hated it too when I was growing up,” he said, eyes sparkling with warm memories of his own and Will’s shoulders loosened at the sight.

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, yeah. I would...it will be nice,” he said before fully sliding out of the truck and heading towards the house.

They said nothing else as William ascended the steps to his bedroom, and Will busied himself with some homework for forty-five minutes before giving up. It was impossible to focus, his thoughts volleying back and forth too much to care about his thematic essay on _Beowulf._ An anxious sort of anticipation cutting and igniting his nerves, flaying him open.

It didn’t feel real, yet. A stilted reality that he could close his eyes and convince himself was not his own. He could clamp down on the memory of the night, distill it away and imagine that none of it happened. His next appointment would have been January eighth. Was still January eighth, as far as the world was concerned.

He considered the date, and his heart hammered at the thought, stomach twisting with dread because his body did not quite yet understand what his brain did. That there was nothing more to dread and he had to close his eyes, force his breaths to slow to pull himself down from the spiral of his anxiety.

He wondered when the reality would collide against him. When the body was found and he had another secret to burrow in his chest- a secret he wanted to keep, feasting on it gluttonously? When his dad inevitably dragged him to the funeral- _closed casket,_ he thought with a crooked grin- and he had to look sullen and bereft?

Or would it be later still- on the morning of January ninth when he awoke to skin not blotted with bruises the size of a fingertip? Not aching and embarrassed and using his very real nausea to fake an illness to get out of school for the day?

He was tempted to call Lecter and ask him about the display- exactly when he might set it up so at least he could try and bundle the nerves away until they would go off like an alarm- but he thought better of it. Christmas Day, he said. He would set it up Christmas Day and it would be like a gift set beneath the tree. Exactly what he wanted.

He tried to calm his mind with assorted tasks- doing the dishes that had piled up and taking the dogs for an extra-long walk. He searched for a recipe for homemade dog treats when he decided that it was only fair to include them in the festivities as well and made a scrawled shopping list on the back of an envelope from some bill he found on the table.

Eventually, he found his way to his backpack and sighed as he knelt down beside it, unpacking it to toss his clothes in the laundry bin. He pulled the clump out with a sharp tug, something thudding against the floor. He knitted his brow, brushed his backpack aside, and found the source of the noise. Wound in his crumpled clothes was a porcelain ornament, discarded on the floor.

He tilted his head to the side as he picked it up by the gold ribbon loop, dangling it before him. It was an angel, suspended in flight. Arms held out and palms skyward as if waiting for an embrace from the heavens. The large, feathered wings cut into the porcelain were painted a shimmering gold, the same gold that trimmed the robe that swayed around the form. It was still and hard, but the draping of the gown and the dynamic pose made it seem alive.

He frowned, trying and failing to recall ever having seen such an ornament before. Lecter had fumbled around in his backpack last night when he retrieved Will’s pajamas- had he dropped it in?

_Why?_

He shook the thought from his head. He had spent enough time with the man to not invite him into his mind in private. It still felt so tangled, their two entities mingling together in his head, and trying to decipher his motives was too puzzling when he felt so entrenched in him.

He took the ornament, holding the loop out as he settled it on a branch of the bare tree. It lowered with the weight, pine needles bunching together, and it looked sad liked that- one single branch bowing to the weight of an ornament while the rest of the tree was unheeded. The box of ornaments sat beneath the fanning branches, pushed against the base with the coiled wire of lights, and with a sigh, he slid down to the floor and started tugging on the string to untangle them. He supposed it was as good a time as any to finally decorate for the holidays.

~x~

“Smells good,” Will said, leaning across the counter and resting his head in his palm. “I’m surprised you remember how to make any of this.”

His dad didn’t cook often, and when he did they were standard things. Pieces of food that were tossed on a plate simply to meet some threshold of nutrition. A vegetable, a starch, and a protein. But the sight of the food cooking before him made saliva pool in his mouth, the smells tugging him back to a hot and humid kitchen, sitting at the table as he made poorly constructed lures with his dad, his grandmaw humming while she cooked. Shrimp etouffee, steamed rice, and crusty baguettes smeared with garlic butter. Okra battered and fried and wilted collards with fennel. The smells of his childhood- a kinder version of it, at least. When he was less sullen and twisted with anger.

“It has been awhile, hasn’t it?” William said, face pulling into a bitter emotion before smoothing out once more. He had been in an odd mood all day, waking from his nap when Will was still affixing ornaments to the tree, watching his son with a look that sat somewhere between fondness and sorrow. He joined him, eventually, the pair silently finishing the tree that for so long sat bare in the living room, a green corpse dragged in from the snow. It seemed less looming now, a less daunting reminder of all the things between them left undone now that plastic baubles and homemade ornaments shifted underneath the rainbow lights.

The trip to the store that followed had been just as odd, William indulging Will as he picked up whatever snack and colorfully wrapped piece of junk food and tossed them into the cart. It felt, distinctly, like what a dog must feel when an extra heap of bacon was dropped in his bowl before a drive to the vet's office to be put down and the thought soured Will's mood for only a moment before deciding to toss it aside. It was one of the better evenings they had together, and he didn't want to ruin it with his distrust.

The cooking began at eleven in the evening, and by then Will's temperament had mellowed enough that he was teasing his dad, doing his best and driest impersonation of Lecter as he scolded William for not preparing his work station properly and for his uneven knife chops. His dad responded with a laugh, a single, specific finger extended as he nonchalantly rubbed his nose in Will's direction.

It was a pleasant end to the day, and his stomach rumbled noisily as his dad settled the lid on the large pot nestled on the red coiled burners, turning the temperature to low. “It will be done soon, why don’t you set the table?”

Will nodded, striding through the kitchen to grab the dishes and silverware, nearly dropping it all when a riot of barks resounded through the home. Clawed feet scampered noisily across the floor, becoming more muted as the dogs ran away from the kitchen and Will frowned as he glanced to the door all five of them departed through.

“What's gotten into them?” William muttered, pulling himself from the counter and following after the riled pack.

The dogs continued to bark, even as the front door creaked open and they spilled out into the night, the sound becoming distant to Will as he lingered in the kitchen.

“What was it?” he called out to his dad, rounding the counter with the bundle of dishes he set out on the table. When no answer came, he shouted out, “Dad?”

Still, no response, and he frowned as he finished arranging the plates and utensils, giving the etouffee a quick stir before slipping down the hall to the front door. It was still open, the light of the front porch a golden spotlight that fell on nothing. Snow fell softly, illuminated by the glow and the distant barking of the dogs echoed in his skull as he moved closer to the door, narrowing his eyes in search of his dad.

He found him at the front of the driveway, speaking with two police officers that glanced over at Will as he shuffled onto the porch, red and blue lights shifting across the snow-laden yard. His dad followed their line of sight, eyes wide and lips pinched as he turned to his son, face drained of all color.

“ _What the hell did you do?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only just now realized how close we are to the end of this. Maybe about five more chapters to go? What an odd feeling that is, considering I started writing this about a month and a half ago (NaNoWriMo who?). 
> 
> I’d also like to take a minute to get super sappy here and just say thank you to everyone for your kudos, comments, and even just simply following along silently with this story. I almost didn’t bother posting it and considered tossing the whole story concept out because I know how unsettling the tags can be, and I didn’t think there would be much of an audience (or that I’d see some of the more unfortunate behavior of fandoms that don’t understand the value of handling difficult topics through a safe medium). And I’ve been so overwhelmed by just how many people are enjoying it and I’ve been so blessed to get so many thoughtful and insightful comments. The idea came about from a nightmare I had with some of my own experience with such abuse, and getting to take that idea and expand on it and write this story has been more therapeutic than I can put into words, and I simply hope that it has been therapeutic/ fun to read as well.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for providing such a wonderful fandom experience, and hopefully, you’re not too mad about this cliffhanger, oops.
> 
> Next up: Police investigate Sutcliffe's disappearance.


	27. Digest

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Digest**

The dogs darted past William, large and small bodies bumping against his legs as he pushed the door open, eyes narrowing at the sight of a police car idling in his driveway. Red and blue lights blinked against the snow, disturbing the dark veil of the Christmas night. He frowned, stepping out onto the porch, bare feet stinging with the cold of the snow but unbothered by it as two officers stepped out of the car, gathering slowly by the hood.

“William Graham?” one- an older woman asked, her gray and black hair pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her neck.

His stomach plummeted, soured at the name turned greeting. So they were not here by mistake then, he thought as he cut through the yard, coming to stand before them. “Yes, is there something I can help you with?” His gaze flicked between the two officers, the woman- her badge bolstered the title of Sergeant Murphy-and her partner, a younger man with close-cropped curls and well-trimmed facial hair.

“We’re sorry to ruin your holiday evening, sir, but we were hoping you and your son- Will Graham- wouldn’t mind coming down with us to have a talk at the station,” Murphy said, a smoothness to her words that made the apology seem too practiced to be sincere.

He frowned, skewing his lips. “My son…?” he said, blinking into the too-bright lights that spun lazily before him, confusion lacing the words. “There must be some mistake, he’s been home with me all day, and he was- he was with a friend all last night.” What could he have done in that time frame? Trapped within such a narrow window? What could he have done that would inspire the police to come to his door at midnight on Christmas Day, faces pulled into grim expressions?

A look was shared between the two, and Murphy simply said, “Still, we’d like to speak with him just to clear up some confusion.”

The other officer opened his mouth, words falling silent as his eyes flicked past William, Murphy’s gaze following the same path and William turned to see Will stepping onto the porch, gazing curiously at the scene unfolding before him.

The words slipped from him before he could stop them, spiked with fear that he turned into anger because it was a steadier emotion. “What the hell did you do?”

Will bristled at the tone, spine straightening and shoulders pulling inward as he folded his arms defensively across his chest. His jaw was clenched, muscles twitching beneath his skin. “ _What the hell did I do?_ I didn’t do anything! You won’t let me leave the house and last night you left me with a _babysitter!_ ” he said, sneering the words disdainfully, cheeks stained pink at the indignant admission.

Gone was the rare ease they had fallen into as the day passed and shifted into the night, replaced once more with the jagged and shattered remains of their relationship. He scoffed, running a hand through his hair and turning to look at the officers once more. “I’m sorry, but what is this about? He’s right, he couldn’t have-”

“Donald Sutcliffe’s wife reported him missing when he failed to pick her and their kids up from the airport. When they finally returned home, he was nowhere to be found and his keys, car, and phone we’re still there,” the younger officer finally spoke, hands rising to settle on his hips. “She said that the last time she spoke with him was yesterday morning at around nine. Can you account for your son’s whereabouts for the whole day?”

The question seemed too much like an accusation, and William peeled his lips back in a snarl as an insult readied on his tongue only to bite it back. He pursed his lips, pinching his eyes closed. “No, I can’t. I slept during the day to prepare for an overnight trip but I...you can’t possibly think he has something to do with-” He swallowed thickly, the reality of the words finally settling in. They were investigating Will as a _suspect_ in a disappearance. A disappearance of a man he once claimed he wanted to kill.

His stomach dropped, throat constricting at the thought and his hands shook as he brought one up to rest on his chin, trembling not from the cold but something else entirely. They were _wrong_. His son wasn’t capable of the things he thought of, and they were simply pointing the finger in the first direction they saw.

The words seemed distant as they came to him, fluttering uneasily through the cold air around him as Murphy said, “We understand your son has been hospitalized before and continues to seek treatment for violent thoughts. And with his...past history of threats against Doctor Sutcliffe, and the issues with his previous doctors-”

“He hasn’t done anything to them!” William interrupted, chest clenching as he was torn in two extremes. Defending his son who he knew wasn’t what everyone said he was and knowing how indefensible his behavior seemed, knowing he would sound blind and jaded.

Murphy blinked, lips pinching in a thin line as she added in a measured tone, “With all due respect, Mister Graham, between his hospitalization after voicing his desire to hurt Doctor Sutcliffe, assaulting Doctor Wilcox-” he flinched at the word assault, wanting to argue against the severe-sounding term but unable to, recalling the sight of his young son with blood smeared over his chin, apologies tumbling from red-stained lips as the doctor in question was sent to get _stitches_. “-and a close friend with a recorded habit of stalking several of his doctors with weapons, that’s not an argument that holds a lot of weight.”

His mouth felt dry, and he raised a hand, rubbing the palm against his lips. “He didn’t...I mean he’s not-” He stammered over himself, unable to string the things he wanted to say together. He wasn’t a _killer_ wasn’t right because Donald was only reported missing, that didn’t mean he was dead and he didn’t dare give voice to the possibility; didn’t dare give voice to another accusation that would settle on his son’s shoulders. Instead, he swallowed it all, voice thin and small as he asked, “how seriously are you looking at him? Do I...” he grimaced, pinched his lips to prevent the bile that corroded in his stomach from slipping out. “Do I need to call a lawyer?”

He didn’t even have a lawyer, wouldn’t know where to begin in searching for one. Would there even be one who would defend his son, or would they all settle for the easiest solution; a plea deal bargaining Will’s instability in exchange for his freedom?

He clamped the thoughts away when he realized how much they were spiraling. Realized he was already placing the burden of an arrest and a trial on Will for a crime that did not yet exist.

“He’s not under arrest, we would just like to ask him a few questions,” Murphy said, giving him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

William sighed, glancing at the dogs that slowly made their way back to the porch, energy spent, and the night too cold to enjoy their play. They brushed past Will to slip in through the still-open door. His son was glaring at him, lips pouted in heated anger and he turned away from the expression of betrayal. He cleared his throat. “I can...I can drive him, right? You don’t have to-” he waved broadly at the police car, throat tightening and choking him at the thought his son being escorted into the backseat, hands pulled behind his back and head lowered. It was a rancid image that burned into his brain, like an old television set with the burning pixels still visible in a dark screen.

The younger officer nodded. “Of course.”

He inhaled, nodding his head slowly before turning on his heel, feet stinging and numb with cold as he shuffled through the snow. Will watched as he trailed towards him, his anger shifting into something else. Something more muted. Apprehension, twinged with fear and the sight made William falter, the familiar desire to reach out and pull him into a hug and tell him everything would be okay making his fingers twitch. A desire he struggled to realize, uncertain if everything _would_ be okay.

“Dad? What’s going on?” he asked, words small as his eyes widened, slipping between the officers who remained rooted in place and his father. He looked younger, the boy he once was peering out from behind the glasses and curls brushing over his brow.

“Get your shoes and jacket on,” was all he offered, slipping past Will to clear up the dinner that would not be eaten. Leftovers that he would push aside in the fridge until too much time had passed and he would dump it unceremoniously in the trash, the meal they had prepared so carefully together over easy laughter and chatter molded and rotten.

When enough of the food was cleaned up that he wasn’t worried about the smell he would come home too, he dressed quickly- tossing on a sweater and a thick jacket and shoving his feet into shoes. He found Will sitting on the couch, legs pulled into his chest and arms around them, embracing himself in the way he often did when he anxious or scared. He swallowed thickly at the base of the stairs, glancing out the windows where the police officers had settled in the still idling car- waiting for them.

“I need you to be completely honest with me, Will,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper but loud in the still quiet of his home. “Did you leave this house when I was sleeping yesterday or today? Or Hannibal’s house? At all?” He hated asking the question, the words traitorous as they left his tongue but needing to know. It wouldn’t be the first time his son disappeared when he was sleeping, and the thought brought with a stabbing pain of guilt. Wanting to feel certain in his son but he was less sure than he once was, the shape of the boy before him nebulous and distant. _Blurry_.

“No!” Will asserted, brow pinching in at the question. “Can you tell me what’s going on please?” His words waned in desperation, and William had to press the heel of his palm against his eyes, hoping the pressure would alleviate the burn of the tears threatening to break free.

“Doctor Sutcliffe’s been reported missing,” was all he said, the declaration etching something on Will’s face. Something fraught and hurt.

“You think I had something to do with it?” he asked.

“No, but they...they do, Will,” he answered, forcing himself to chuckle because otherwise, he was going to cry. He found himself mirroring an expression often seen on his own son’s face, a stretched smiled that turned into a painful grimace and wondering if this was what he felt all the time to inspire such a twisted half-smile. Such bitter hopelessness that the muscles in his face refused to cooperate.

His mouth tasted tinny, cloyingly metallic with the admission that he would not voice as he sighed and made his way to the door, Will following behind him. The admission that he couldn’t do it anymore- he was ill-equipped to deal with his son’s illness and though he didn’t think his son was capable of the things his mind created, he was frightened with the possibility that one day he might be. That he would fail his son with his inability to help him, as much to blame for the things he might do as Will was.

He felt the failure like a wound, a disemboweling that left him gutted and hollow.

His son wasn’t to blame for this.

They would see that he was sure.

He was less sure about the future, an indistinguishable form. Less sure that the next time the police came to his porch looking for his son he would leave the house with the same certainty in his innocence.

He slid into the truck silently, the knowledge of what he needed to do firmly settling in his brain. In order to help Will, he needed to admit he was unable to help him. He could only hope his son wouldn’t hate him too much for it.

~x~

It was hard for Will to control his nerves as he sat in the stiff, metal chair of the interrogation room, leg bouncing with anxious energy. His fingers drummed noisily against the table, eyes flicking to the large mirror and staring at it as if he only needed a bit more concentration to turn it into a window. Will the glass to reveal itself to him.

He was alone, the detective and Sergeant Murphy ending their round of questioning and his dad stepping away to speak with them in private. He did not need to feign his fear, the panic that thrummed through him as seconds slipped into dragging minutes. Pulled into the past by the questions they tossed at him, memories sinking into him like teeth as they asked about his former doctors, a parade of people he refused to speak with until they grew tired of his stubbornness. Less patient and understanding.

They said they would contact Doctor Lecter, and his eyes moved to the clock, swallowing thickly. That was nearly two and a half hours ago and he had yet to hear any word on the matter. He knew they were deferring to his dad, discussing him behind closed doors because he was too young to be dragged into the talk of his fate but too old to be spared the kindness of assumed innocence. An age that straddled between a spectrum of liability and it felt like the same tug-of-war between him and his doctors. Old enough that they blamed him for not taking steps of his own to get better, young enough that he was blown by their whims.

It made anger stir in his chest, but he dutifully shoved it down. Forced the rage to simmer in his belly so he gave them no reason to suspect him further.

He frowned, thinking of the end of the movie _Psycho._ A move he watched before he decided even a false blade collapsing into a handle and made real with special effects was too much temptation. He thought of Norman Bates stiff in the police station, so gentle and unaffected that even a fly might find comfort in his presence. The parallels were unsettling, and he slumped forward in the chair, head resting on the table.

He didn’t look up until the door opened, Sergeant Murphy leaving it wide so he could see the station stretching beyond. His spine straightened at the sight of his father, elbows on his knees and head in his hands as Chilton stood before him. He swallowed thickly, recalling Lecter’s words on the phone. _Frederick has had a wave of astuteness wash over him, and he thinks you’ve resolved yourself to action._

He forced his gaze to return to Murphy as she spoke, a file folder held against her stomach as she hovered by the doorway. “We’ve tried calling your psychiatrist a few times now, and it keeps going to voicemail. We left him a message the first time, but so far he hasn’t reached out. We were able to get in touch with your school psychiatrist though. He’s expressed some concerns about your health recently. Would you like to tell me about it?”

He pinched his lips, unable to stop himself from saying, “you can’t talk to me without my dad in the room.” It sounded guilty, and he had to force himself to keep from wincing. He let his shoulders slouch, hoping the dejected position would make him smaller- more pathetic and less like the psychopath he was certain Chilton made him out to be.

He tried to keep the bubble of nausea from burning his esophagus and filling his mouth. _Where was Lecter?_

Murphy nodded, a firm expression on her face that belied her suspicion. “I just wanted to let you know where we were in confirming your alibi,” she said, and he let his face crumble at the word as if overwhelmed by the reality of the moment and knowing that it wasn’t entirely a facade. It was impossible not to think of the lock of hair ripped from his head, scalp tingling with a phantom ache. “Unfortunately, he still can’t help with the block of time in the middle of the day before your dad dropped you off. When he was asleep and you were on your own.”

He frowned, mumbling, “speaking of my dad-”

She smiled an insincere smile, nodding as a soft laugh huffed out from her lips. “Of course. I will just wait then,” she said, pulling the chair opposite Will out and settling down. “He was going to step out to make some phone calls. We can talk when he gets back.”

Will turned his gaze back to the station, finding his dad and Chilton gone from view- leaving only the slow bustle of a Christmas morning, officers dour at spending their holidays in such a grim place. With a resigned sigh, he resumed his slumped over position, chair legs rattling noisily as he continued to jostle his leg.

He nearly flung himself backward when a fist rapt against the wall beside the open door, a uniformed officer leaning in to say, “Doctor Lecter’s here, Sergeant. He’s asking to see his patient.” His head pulled sharply up from the cradle of his arms, Murphy watching him as she nodded, gesturing with a wave to send Lecter in. The officer stepped away, the space she occupied filled moments later as Lecter stepped into view.

Will's relief was palpable, the dull and twisting sting of betrayal easing away at the sight of the man before him, face pulled into an expression of concern. He was dressed more formally than usual- his waistcoat replaced with a deep maroon cumberbund, jacket tapering behind him into a tailcoat. He wore a bowtie instead of the more casual necktie, and his hair was once more neatly parted and smoothed over. “My sincerest apologies, Sergeant. I’m afraid I turned my phone off for the evening as I attended a production of _The Nutcracker_ followed by a gala hosted by some friends of mine. I came as quickly as I could,” he said, coming around the table to lay a palm over Will’s shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze.

It felt steadying. Like a reassurance that Will grasped at.

“No apologies needed, Doctor. Sorry to take you away from your holiday,” she began, refolding her legs. “Will and I were just discussing what he’s been up to these past few days.”

Lecter frowned, hand pulling away from Will to slide into his pocket, suit jacket bunching at the waist with the motion. “Without his father? Or did I just miss William?”

“Don’t worry, Will knows better than to say anything without his dad,” she said, the words barbed with her suspicions. As if Will knowing his rights was a testament to his guilt, the declaration of them an admission of guilt.

“Excellent,” Lecter intoned, leaning forward as his thin lips tilted into a small smile. “No one will be a better advocate for you than yourself, I’ve often found.”

Her smile was less convincing this time as she said, “Well until his dad comes back, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your patient. In private, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed, tilting his head in Will’s direction. “I will answer them to the best of my abilities, keeping in mind Patient-Doctor confidentiality.”

She narrowed her eyes, rising from her seat and pushing it in slowly. Her gaze leveled at Will, considering him for a moment before turning to Lecter to say, “Confidentiality doesn’t extend to the reasonable belief that a crime may be committed.”

There was a moment hesitation, and Will raised his eyes to look at Lecter, spine stiffening at the barest of expressions that flitted over his face. Gone so quickly he might have thought he imagined the slight pinching of his lips, the eyes that widened imperceptibly before softening, blinking away that sharpened look. He was congenial once more as he said, “I understand that I am required to report any concerns that I believe may turn to actions. As I have not made any such reports, we can ascertain that I did not have any reasonable belief that a crime could be committed and will maintain our confidentiality arrangement.”

Murphy sniffed, nodding slowly as she amended, “I didn’t mean to offend-”

“It was rude, though,” Will interrupted, folding his hands in front of him and staring at them instead. It was a brash thing to say, but he was emboldened by the presence of Lecter beside him. Envisioning the man entering a theater, perhaps while chatting pleasantly with an acquaintance- a ticket in hand that he held out to be scanned by an usher. Envisioning him slipping easily from the same theater- lights dimmed low and too many seats between him and his acquaintances to notice his absence for the ballet. Envisioning him attending a party just long enough to be wrangled into several group photos and listen to a few humorous tales he could relay in later conversations. Envisioning the plastic suit over the formal wear, keeping him clean between sets as though switching scenes in a play. Dancing between performances.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of fabric rustling, and Murphy sighed as she said, “Sorry if I offended you, Doctor. But if you’ll follow me, we’ll see how many of my questions you can answer.”

She strode from the room then, and Lecter took the opportunity to squeeze Will’s shoulder once more. “Don’t worry, Will. I’m sure soon enough they’ll realize you’re innocence.” The words were weighted, contorted with meaning and Will rose his gaze to him, eyes locking as he nodded his understanding.

_Soon they would find the body._

Lecter's bourbon colored eyes flashed, pleased with himself- and perhaps even pleased with Will, hesitating a moment longer in the doorway as he muttered beneath his breath, “it was rather rude, wasn’t it?” The smile he gave Will was fleeting, meant only for him. A secret shared between the two of them, a thin slit that revealed the sharpened tips of his teeth.

_Like a knife._

~x~

They allowed Will to move from the interrogation room to a line of uncomfortable plastic seats, and though the new corner of the station made him feel less scrutinized- less the criminal he was but was trying desperately to hide- he missed the table spread before him that he could drape himself over. There was nothing to slouch into now- no corners to tuck himself into- and he shifted every few minutes in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position that eluded him. The seat was too small for him to pull his knees into his chest, rubber soles of his shoes sliding down the edge, and with a sigh he relented, tilting his head back to rest on the wall behind him.

He was aware that they had nothing certain to hold him with- no evidence of a crime or even what sort of crime they were trying to solve. That each round of _‘just a few more questions’_ and _‘we’re going to speak with his school psychiatrist and then we’ll have to ask you a few things’_ was just an attempt to delay them, hold him there for as long as it took to find something substantial; something that would make Will's presence a requirement instead of a courtesy.

His head lolled to the side, eyelids peeling back slightly so he could see but not be caught doing so, looking half-asleep as he stared at the room he had occupied only moments earlier. Chilton was in there now, painting a cruel picture of Will that would be their new reasoning for holding him a little longer. Inspire a new round of questions that he would be _kind enough to answer for them_.

His father was sectioned off into another room- another interrogator. Fumbling over his defenses of his son that was tethered together less by reason and more by paternal love.

His stomach was roiling with nerves, with the desire for everything to just be over with. To just be able to go home and crawl into bed with his dogs.

He wished he could be transported to that time. To the date of January ninth when he would awake after a night without fresh nightmares, without the fresh shame that clung like sweat to his body. He clasped to that date with strong hands, clinging to the promise of freedom that came with it. Freedom from interrogation and every other thing that shackled him; bound like a prisoner.

“Will.”

He rolled his head to the side, blinking his eyes open to see Lecter standing before him. He had left to procure the feed from his security system, making certain to state that he was doing it as a show of good faith and cooperation despite there being no warrant and Sergeant Murphy’s face twitched at the parting words. But now he stood before Will, the finer aspects of his wardrobe gone and leaving him in just a button-down and trousers, winter coat unclasped before him. He held out a container of food to Will, a speckled bowl of expensive stoneware to act as a thermos and keep the dish hot.

“Your father told me you never had a chance to eat dinner, and I thought you might like something to eat. So I made you a quick breakfast when I stopped at my home,” he said, and Will frowned, sitting straighter in the chair.

It would have been a kind gesture if Will didn’t see the true motive that simmered beneath the veil of compassion. The insidious desire that seemed to drive Lecter’s hand, the desire that ushered him in life, and inspired a vulgar sort of art. Something sadistic and twisted and perverse.

He was near jubilant with the irony of it; waltzing into the police station with pieces of the very man they were looking for.

Sutcliffe wasn’t missing, after all. He was sitting in their bellies, digesting in acid. Sitting in the very bowl Lecter was pushing into Will’s hand, a leather pouch resting on top that contained silverware. He was here in this station, beneath the eyes of the too many detectives and officers. So many eyes, and yet no one would see him.

He was invisible.

A ghost.

Smoke.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Will mumbled as he accepted the dish, mouth twisting when his stomach grumbled noisily. It was a crude thing, satiating his sadistic desire and love of this particular brand of poetry under the guise of caring for Will. He frowned, unsure of what exactly he expected from the man. He was a psychopath, after all. For all the gentleness he showed Will following their kill, it was simply a costume he donned. A gentleness that hid his penchant for violence. A response less to Will himself than from the euphoric rise and fall of the blood staining both their hands and lips.

The edges of Lecter’s mouth flickered into a grin that disappeared just as quickly. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Will scoffed, pulling the lid off the container as Lecter sat beside him. Steam billowed upward, warming his face. Creamy yellow eggs, scrambled delicately, and topped with chopped parsley, several strips of bacon curled beside it. “Smells good,” he said in a sigh, relenting his bitterness at being used as a prop for Lecter’s amusement in favor of the food before him.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Lecter said, extending a finger as his other hand slipped into his coat pocket. He pulled out a snack-sized pouch of barbecue flavored potato chips, the plastic bag crinkling noisily in his hand as he held it out for Will. “I stopped at the vending machine on my way in.”

It was an amusing image, the thought of the poised and pompous man standing before the white light of a vending machine. Narrowed eyes dragging across rows of sugary candy and processed snacks until he found the code for the one he wanted. It should have made Will laugh, but instead, it softened the brittle edges of his rising anger. Smoothed his frayed nerves. It was an endearing gesture- not the false, play-pretend sort that the offering of the eggs and _bacon_ was but a genuine one and Will gave him a small, fluttering smile as he took the bag from the extended hands.

The bag popped noisily, and he gave a sheepish, apologetic grin at the few workers who glanced up at him as he crushed the chips between his palms. He sprinkled the fragments on top of the eggs and pulled the fork from the leather pouch, eating slowly. Savoring the taste of the sincere kindness on his tongue even as Lecter grimaced, glancing away from the sight of his carefully prepared food covered in something so banal and artificial.

He was a psychopath perhaps, but an odd one.

Not entirely unlike Will himself, he supposed.

“We were going to have a _reveillon_ dinner before the police showed up,” he said in between bites of the food, appreciating it all the same but feeling morose about the meal that had been abandoned. The tradition forgotten once more.

Lecter hummed thoughtfully, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his lap. “ _Reveil._ Waking. I’ve had the opportunity to participate in such traditions during my education in France, and they were always a wonderful and enduring evening of indulgent food and company,” he recalled, glancing at Will with an indiscernible expression. “I’m sorry yours came to such an abrupt and unfulfilling end. But there will always be more opportunities- one does not need a holiday to celebrate luxuries and family.”

Will shrugged, mumbling into a forkful of food, “I don’t think there will be.”

Lecter narrowed his eyes, head tilting to the side. “I don’t suppose you’re talking about _reveillon_ anymore?”

He didn’t respond, busying his mouth with the slow chews of the food before him. The bacon was crisp and oily on his tongue- thicker and less fatty than the bacon he was familiar with and he wondered if Lecter was as much a connoisseur of flesh and meat as he was wine. Detecting the notes and bouquets of the food that sat like death on his plate.

  
Could he taste Sutcliffe's sins? Did it sour the meat? Did his sins taste different from the sins and crimes of others, the various sins that found them trapped in that basement a discernible flavor? Did the fear and anguish he felt in the moments before his death forever alter his flavor? Tenderize or toughen the portions of himself?

Was the meat bitter about being dead?

His thoughts came to an abrupt end with the sound of muffled ringing, and he glanced at Lecter as he moved to grab his phone from his pocket. He blinked at the screen, tilting the device slightly so Will could see the caller information. He furrowed his brow at the unfamiliar name. _Jack Crawford._

“Who-”

“I believe you’ll be home soon,” Lecter said, his voice a quiet murmur so only Will could hear, and he was rising from his seat, answering the phone with a cheery greeting before Will could question him further. He strode through the station, words obscured by the shuffle of papers and muted conversation filling the space. Still, Will watched him, catching the feigned expressions that spread across his face like a carefully maintained act.

He chewed the last few bites of the food and clipped the lid back on, holding the empty dish in his lap. He tapped the syllables of the name on the roof of his mouth, tasting it on his tongue.

Jack Crawford.

He must work for the FBI, one of the many colleagues and friends Lecter cherished like a prize. And what a prize he was.

He was the lead on the Chesapeake Ripper, Will surmised.

He tore his eyes away from the performance at the sound of his name, his father shuffling up to him with hunched shoulders. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and sighed heavily- a weary, exhausted thing that was squeezed from his lungs. “Will, ugh...they said we’re free to go,” he said, voice small. Soft.

Will let his gaze slant, flick to the space behind his father. Sergeant Murphy stood some distance away, arms folded over her chest and her lips pulled into a grim line. The door to the room was open now, and Chilton stood in the threshold, watching the scene unfurl before him in a way so unlike what he envisioned when he was first roused from sleep by the phone call.

Will frowned, blinking up at his dad with confused eyes.

_He wanted him to say it._

“We can go? Just like that?”

William pursed his lips, dimples forming on his chin under the tension of the expression. “Yeah. Just like that, Will,” he said in an exhalation, a sharp bluster of air. He was torn in two, Will realized as he slowly rose from the seat. Mourning the death of a friend while relieved at his son’s apparent innocence, flaying himself open when the relief inspired a wave of guilt in a vicious cycle that fed upon itself. A serpent consuming its own tail in gluttonous greed.

“Why?” he pressed, a cruel part of him wanting to hear the words. The ones that would take the moment that seemed suspended in fantasy and make it a reality. The words that would actualize his sins and crimes, that tasted like blood and flesh gnashed between his teeth.

He was beginning to understand it now. The voyeuristic part of Lecter that enjoyed the chaos he set into motion. Enjoyed the dramatic irony, an audience to a film where he was omniscient, knowing the twists and turns that would shatter the characters with each reveal.

The part of Lecter that served his guests human flesh and coyly hinted at the true nature of the dish with double entendres.

William gritted his teeth, eyes squeezing closed as if he might make the world before him disappear with enough will and force. Make the police station on the bleak and grim Christmas day dissolve into nothingness.

Will wondered if he wished his son might disappear with it.

“He’s dead,” William finally ground out, words strangled from a constricting throat, enclosing with all the feelings that lodged there. “His body was dumped after we’ve been in custody. So we can go.”

The world didn’t quite freeze at that moment. It still trudged onward- time slowly inching forward in a steady line. But Will felt separate, disjointed from it all. He felt weightless, lofty in the wake of this big, flourishing reveal. All of his secrets spread out and for the world to see without seeing the entirety of it.

No longer needing to hold the knowledge behind his teeth. No longer fantasizing about the moments following Sutcliffe’s death the way he once fantasized about the death itself. Fantasizing about all the emotions he inspired by his actions. All the people stirred by the loss of the man they did not truly know. The horror at the brutality of his last few moments, the sorrow that would follow.

It was heady. _Powerful_.

All the lives he disrupted, all the chaos crafted by his hand. Like the ripple of water that turned to a crashing wave.

A force of nature.

His eye contact with his father did not waver, did not falter as it normally might have. Searching for what he could, savoring each flicker of a lapsing emotion in the older man’s gaze. He wanted to see it all. _Grief, fear, relief, sorrow, regret, hopelessness..._

He only half-paid attention to the world around, hearing Lecter’s muffled words as he apologized for his abrupt exit, asking Sergeant Murphy for her card for his personal records before departing, a firm hand squeezing Will’s shoulder as he passed.

Of course, he needed to leave though, Will thought as he continued to stare at his father. The tension mounting between them, so great it was a tangible pressure on Will’s chest.

_There was a crime scene to consult on._

_His crime scene._

And where once there had been hysteria at the thought of Lecter consorting with the very people trying to catch him was now something closer to appreciation. Admiration, even. The thought of witnessing it all too tempting to fault him for. There was a morbid part of Will that longed to leave with him, to see the lips curling in disgust at his own work. To hear the resentful praise at how _well-done_ and _efficient_ the torture was, like a dog eager for the treat balanced on his nose. 

Will was a good liar.

He could wield and weaponize his empathy to pull an emotion from the well of his mind, bring tears to his eyes with simply the memory of them, the tracks on his cheeks a haunting trail. He could spike his own blood pressure, make his heartbeat unevenly within his chest by considering a moment he was afraid as if capturing the memory and trapping himself within it.

He couldn’t always control his emotions, held by the whims of others by a brain that mirrored too much. But he could make them sharp and pointed, command them to him easily enough.

Yet, it wasn’t enough for this particular moment.

Some emotions were harder to subdue, and the sheer elation he felt was one of them. Like the blooming petals of a rose, it peeled from him, unable to steady the twitch of his lips before it pulled into a smile.

His dad finally looked away, repulsion thick on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detectives: we have reason to believe you did something to this man  
> Will, who 24 hours ago was elbow-deep in the chest of the man in question, currently digesting his remains: What do you mean? I'm just a baby.
> 
> Next up: The Ripper's final kill in this sounder is revealed, and Will and William's relationship comes to an explosive head.


	28. Centerpiece

**Chapter Twenty-Seven:** **Centerpiece**

There was a stillness to cemeteries, even ones sat within the bustling center of a city such as Maryland. An untouched aura of calm, a reprieve from the world where life could remain suspended as though honoring the dead. Allowing the dead to rest peacefully.

‘ _Sleep in heavenly peace,’_ Hannibal thought in wry amusement, ducking under the barrier of police tape that corded off the crime scene. Snow crunched beneath his steps, the thin layer of ice crisping into shards. The stillness was disturbed, medical examiner vans and sleek, black SUVs stationed on the slim, meandering road taken only by mourners and hearses in a slow parade. Standing lights held upon metal legs were propped on the scene, shining a glaring and harsh light over the snow-laden graves. Cold and unfeeling, void of the warm golden rays of heaven.

More police tape was strung, and there was a beauty that Hannibal could appreciate though he did not orchestrate it in the sight of the bright yellow rope winding over the statues that stood like ghosts. _‘Do Not Cross’_ emblazoned over the tape that wound around the waist of a sculpted angel, pulling loosely between it and a stone rendition of the Virgin Mary, the rounded cheeks of a baby Jesus held in her arms.

He was pleased to hear the music still lofting above the ambling techs and investigators, that he arrived on the scene early enough they had yet to turn it off, notes fluttering like falling snowflakes.

‘ _Joy to the world; Joy to the world; Joy to the world, the Lord has come.’_

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack called, catching sight of him as he approached and striding forward, the lapel to his long coat pulled up to guard him from the wind that blustered between the tombstones. “Sorry to pull you away from your holiday.” His tone was bitter, laced with a somber sort of anger. Failure. The Ripper had evaded him once more and though there was still a full scene to process and the hope that a Christmas miracle might bring with it evidence, they both knew otherwise. That the scene marked another end before the Ripper would slip into the shadows once more, as elusive as the many ghosts that sat upon the graves surrounding them.

“My holiday was already hijacked by pressing matters,” Hannibal offered, sighing in exhaustion that hid the thrum of adrenaline- delight at his own machinations. The conductor to a symphony that played beneath his command masterfully, mingling with the merry tones of the choir. “In fact, I must admit to some conflicting emotions brought up with your call. Donald and I have been working together for one sixteen-year-old patient, and there were concerns he may have something to do with this. Certainly, that isn’t the case though.”

‘ _Let Earth receive her King; Let every heart prepare Him room; and heaven and nature sing; and heaven and nature sing; and heaven, and heaven and nature sing!’_

Jack glanced at him from beneath the brim of his hat before turning once to cast his gaze on the scene behind him. When he looked back to Hannibal, it was with a rare look of contrition. “Doctor Bloom did tell me you knew him. And by that I mean she yelled at me when I told her I called you to consult. You were friends, right? I think I saw him at your party- you don’t have to be here for this. It’s not...it’s not the way you’ll want to remember him,” Jack said, fumbling over the words of comfort that were foreign on his tongue.

Hannibal gave a shaky, thankful smile, even as he shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Jack, but if anything, my relationship with him will only motivate me more to bring him justice,” Hannibal assured, catching the relief that flickered in Jack’s eyes at not losing him to his grief.

_All hands on deck._

“Still, I’d like you to prepare yourself,” Jack said, offering a tight-lipped smile that leaned more towards a grimace before turning to lead Hannibal to the center of the activity. The stand lighting was at its most offensive here, an artificial halo beaming light onto the freshly dug and shallow grave. Beverly Katz knelt beside the scene with a camera, crouching so her knees would not become cold and numb from the frozen earth, and she glanced up at their approach, frowning sullenly and stepping away so Hannibal could observe the scene unheeded.

They left the music, but the candles had been snuffed out. Different sized white candles with black, crippled wicks curling over melted wax, encasing the grave that was only so deep that Sutcliffe sunk into the earth. Lanterns sat at the top of the grave, creating a fixed crown of light, glass sides frosted from the chill. The glow from the candles had been far more pleasant than the harsh flood of light currently surrounding them, the warm flicker of the flame an inviting wave in the dark, winter evening.

But his ire that they disrupted his full tableau dissolved as his gaze once more fell on the center of the display, looking at the scene as if with new eyes.

‘ _Joy to the world; Joy to the world; Joy to the world, the Savior reigns!’_

Sutcliffe was barely visible in the grave, so consumed by the flowers that spilled from him. Blossoms and buds rising from the center cavern of his chest- the flayed skin cut away to ensure no obstructions and revealing the ivory prison of his ribs. Flowers wound between the bones, bursting through the rib cage as if a garden overrunning a trellis, green leaves and velvet petals a canvas of colors against the white snow and brown, turned dirt of his grave.

‘ _Let men their songs employ; White fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains, repeat the sounding joy; repeat the sounding joy; repeat, repeat, the sounding joy!’_

His gaze pulled from the bed of flowers nestled between flesh and bone and rose to the face- nearly unrecognizable now. More flowers spilled from his mouth, distended and broken jaw wretched open wide enough to create a large well. A vase of blossoms clutched between teeth.

‘ _Joy to the world, now we sing; Let the earth receive her King!’_

More buds, small flowering plants, and Queen Anne’s lace replaced the eyes, eyelids cut back so as to not damage the delicate stems. He was a grave made garden; rotting organs replaced with blooming daisies, amaryllises, astilbes, and more of the white, fragile lace. Chest spilling open in petals of magenta and violet, red and yellow. Flesh cut away to reveal the flowering beauty growing within the decaying remains.

“He’s brought us flowers,” Hannibal mused, gaze falling askance and taking a shuddering breath as he turned to look at the still and frozen statues. Angels and mothers and babies enclosing them. He pressed his eyes closed, counting to six as if gathering himself, and turned back to the scene.

“A garden, actually,” Beverly corrected, crouching down once more and extending a gloved hand to the sloping ribs, flowers spilling between the bones. “There’s soil in there. We haven’t gotten far enough along but I bet there’s probably a root system, too. Our Ripper’s a horticulturist.” Her tone was wary, grumpy as she was roused from sleep and her dark eyes glassy with the remains of holiday wine and champagne.

An evening of food and merriment that led to a cluster of graves and a living bouquet.

“Condolence flowers?” Jack groused, the words a growl and he walked slowly around the perimeter of the grave, rubbing at his eyes.

Beverly frowned, muttering beneath her breath, “The Ripper’s a horticulturist. Not me, I don’t know what they mean.” Jack huffed, giving a withering glare at her sardonic response but letting the notion fade. It was Christmas, after all. She had every reason to be a little sour.

‘ _Joy to the world, now we sing; Let the angel voices ring!’_

Beverly sighed, clearing her throat as she added, “I can’t tell you what they mean, but you see the ones in the eyes?” She shuffled alongside the grave, one hand bracing herself for support on the ground, the other extending to the eye, petals brushing over cheekbones and brows. “They have soil and roots, too. And it looks like there’s an incision along the crown of the head.” She paused in her explanation, taking the opportunity to stand and folding her arms over her chest. “I think he hollowed out the head. Can’t confirm until I can get a crack in there, but I bet the brain’s been given the green thumb treatment, too.”

“He made him a garden,” Jack muttered somberly, lips pursing tightly as he stared down at his feet, careful to avoid the strategically arranged candles. “Why though? He seemed to be having fun with the Christmas motif before, and aside from-” he glanced up, sneering in the direction of the boombox resting on a nearby placard as if it were responsible from dragging him away from his wife and home in the holiday evening- “aside from the song, this is starkly different.”

“Is it?” Hannibal prompted, tilting his head to the side. “Christmas has its foundation in the Pagan celebration of Yule, held on the Winter Solstice to celebrate the days becoming longer once more after a period of prolonged darkness. The traditions and celebrations that we still utilize even to this day serve to remind us that despite the cold and inability to harvest, spring would return eventually.”

“Spring has sprung,” Beverly mumbled, turning away from the scene and headed in the direction of a tech van.

‘ _Joy to the world, now we sing; Let men their songs employ; Joy to the world, now we sing; Repeat the resounding joy!’_

Snow crunched noisily, and Hannibal turned in time to see Alana bend beneath the tape, frowning at the scene as she approached. “Sorry I’m late. I was with family,” she said, eyes flicking to Hannibal before settling on Jack. “Have I missed anything?”

Jack sputtered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just that the Ripper is celebrating the end of the year and the upcoming spring with some gardening, apparently,” he mused, extending a hand in an outward flourish to the bed of flowers and flesh. After a moment, he added, “Do you know anything about flower meanings?”

She glanced down at the grave, inhaling sharply before smoothly transitioning into the stoic professionalism, dark brown hair brushing over her shoulders as she turned her head to examine the flowers. “Well, daisies are innocence. New beginnings, which certainly fits with the spring theme,” she began before lowering into a crouch. “Queen Anne’s lace for sanctuary. Red amaryllis-”

Her words came to a sharp, biting end. An amputation that sat stilted in the graveyard, breath fanning out in puffs. She blinked, raising her head, eyes sliding along the silhouettes of tombstones and phantoms. Listening to the music.

‘ _He rules the world with truce and grace; And makes the nations prove, the light of His righteousness and wonders of His love.’_

She swallowed thickly, palms splaying over her knees. “Red Amaryllis is for love. And astilbe. It means... _I’ll wait for you._ ”

A silence followed the words, and Hannibal delighted in it as much as he delighted in the analysis itself. Decadence in the stillness broken by the distant chattering of crime scene techs, feet crisping over the snow as they traipsed between graves. Voices echoing within the vast space of the Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery, the dark sky slowly pulling from the horizon- pink and orange creeping along the heavens and chasing away the stars. The nebulous dawn hazing into existence, dragging the evening firmly into Christmas morning and he knew that even now, children were thundering excitedly down steps, colorful paper ripping beneath eager hands. Unconcerned by the cluster of investigators and the half-corpse turned into a grave. A garden.

“Are you telling me the Ripper is in love?” Jack asked, incredulous. As if the thought of such a man- a man made monster, a behemoth of cruelty, as elusive and shadowy as he was- being in love was an impossibility. A mockery to the sanctity of other, purer romances. As if someone capable of such viciousness was unable to appreciate the soft curves of love- so different from the sharp and pointed blade of a knife.

_Soft and sharp._

“Love isn’t right. Love is too...simple,” Alana said, closing her eyes once more to listen to the notes that seemed louder now, swelling over the graves and ricocheting off the stone angels. Hannibal felt his breath halt in his throat, felt himself rise on his toes and cant himself forward, a pink tongue licking his lips in anticipation of what she would say. If not love, then what? What did she think the blossoms of romance, promise, and dedication meant if not in a declaration of love? What was the vision of the shadow of the monster who did this settling into in her mind, becoming more defined with each kill but never enough to see his silhouette matched the silhouette of the man standing before her now, waiting with bated breath for her words?

When her eyes opened, the crawled slowly over the grave, over each feathering petal of the astilbe, each cradling nest of the Queen Anne’s lace. To the flowers spilling between lips and the crown of lanterns, candles enclosing the grave and garden. Envisioning the halo of golden flames that once enveloped the man. “This isn’t a love letter. It’s an altar. The Ripper is in worship.”

Hannibal settled back on his heels, raising his head to glance at the heavens above him. Letting the sound of the music drawn out the analysis of his and Will's design, combined ideas forming one whole masterpiece. 

‘ _And wonder of His love;_

_And wonders of His love;_

_And wonders, wonders of His love!_

_And wonders, wonders of His love!_

_Joy to the world, now we sing;_

_Let the earth receive her King!_

_Joy to the world, now we sing;_

_Let angel voices ring!”_

~x~

It was still dark when Will and his father finally left the police station, dawn still hours away and Will stifled a yawn as he slid into the passenger seat. He had been so wired, nerves cut and on edge over the last few hours that he was plummeting now that it was over.

_Over_.

The word had once seemed like an impossibility, a dream that would remain only within the folds of his brain. A sweet and pleasant thing he could envision but never hold on to. A comforting thought he would turn to when his mind was at its most tumultuous, plagued by nightmares and demons that had a shape similar to the ones in his waking world. It never felt like a real thing, though.

That the appointments would end. He would never again walk into the examination room or the office; would no longer stare at the ceiling above him as if doing so was enough to rip his consciousness from his body. Would never have to feel that small again, that reduced. Or feel the hands that followed that reduction, that touched him with an ownership they did not have but took anyway. And now that ownership was once more placed firmly back in Will’s possession, belonging to himself in a way that felt disorienting; made him unbalanced with the reality that his body was his own in a way it had never been before.

It felt unfamiliar. It felt like power.

It was over, and he was going home, the iron bars of a prison cell growing further and further apart from him with each step as he left the station. There was freedom now, sitting like the dawn on the horizon. A malleable future that he could shape with his hands instead of the hands of another and he felt renewed. The promise of a new year sitting a week away and all the things that would come with it.

His life had been divided into segments, counting it as it was between appointments. He did not think of the future- distant and uncertain- and instead focused only on the weeks between each visit. As if his life was so narrow and small it fit within those few lines of a calendar, meeting the date and then preparing for the next. He lived in fragments, in the confines of days instead of years.

But now those appointments were gone, leaving behind a vastness. Years and years and years unaccounted for and they tasted like a promise.

It was over, and he was unable to stop the sigh that slipped between his lips, head leaning against the headrest and eyes fluttering close.

“You should get some sleep,” he dad said, eyes fixed on the windshield before them, elbow leaning against the window and the palm curling around his head. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Will glanced at him, nodding slowly before twisting on his side, curling against the door. Several minutes passed between them before the engine turned, the truck sputtering to life and jostling Will gently against the window. The vibration hummed through him, and as the truck pulled from the station parking lot, he slowly fell asleep.

Lulled to slumber by the motion of the car as it drove home and the quiet murmur of Christmas music seeping through the radio speakers.

‘ _In Bethlehem, in Israel,_

_This blessed Babe was born_

_And laid within a manger_

_Upon this blessed morn;_

_The which his Mother Mary_

_Did nothing take in scorn;_

_Oh tidings of comfort and joy;_

_Comfort and joy;_

_Oh tidings of comfort and joy._

_Fear not then, said the Angel,_

_Let nothing you affright_

_This day is born a Savior_

_Of a pure and Virgin bright_

_To free all those who trust in Him_

_From Satan’s power and might;_

_Oh tidings of comfort and joy;_

_Comfort and joy;_

_Oh tidings of comfort and joy...’_

~x~

He awoke to the sound of knuckles rapping against the glass, head pulling up from the window and blinking rapidly, the world shifting before him. It was dark, shadows blanketing over the truck and he furrowed his brow at the unfamiliar surroundings.

The farmhouse was not sitting before them, snow thick on the ground and trees in the distance. Instead, he was met with a dark gray wall, numbers painted in black against it and he frowned, realizing he was in a parking garage.

The door opened beside him opened, and he looked up at his dad; at the eyes that shifted around overhead, glancing at the sparse cars surrounding them. Anywhere but at Will.

“Get out, Will,” William asked, a quiet command that Will resolutely ignored, sliding closer to the center console and gripping a protective hand around the seat belt. His stomach flipped, churned as his waking mind slowly understood where they were. His dad didn’t say he would wake him up when they got _home._ Just when they got _there._

They were at the hospital.

“No,” Will ground out, heels digging into the fabric upholstery on the floor of the truck.

William swallowed, eyes closing as he tried to gather himself. Compose his anger and frustrations and hopelessness. “Will, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he begged, finally looking down at his son, eyes pink and glassy beneath the low lighting of the garage.

“I didn’t do anything!” Will cried out, his own voice curling in desperation. His heartbeat erratically, hands shaking as he tried to press himself as far into the seat as he could manage. “I didn’t do anything and you’re _punishing_ me?” His anxiety was a tangible thing as it trembled through him, made gooseflesh prickle on his skin, and his pulse hammer.

He was so far away from the building itself and yet he could already smell the burning aroma of antiseptic. Chlorinated cleaners dragging like nails down his throat and lungs, the chemicals obscuring the metallic scent of blood and the sweet decay of death. He could hear the noise that never ceased- quiet chattering from a nursing station and muffled pages made over a loudspeaker. Socked feet scuffling over linoleum floors and the constant routine of a schedule that pulled him from a room that was never private enough and a cafeteria; a media room and a craft room as if he were a child and the cure for the thing that was wrong in his brain might be found in glitter glue and the pieces of construction paper he was not allowed to cut for himself.

The daily pressure of a cuff on his arm and a thermometer under his tongue as he was poked and prodded each morning. Nurses writing the stats of his body down on a chart and culminating it in a single file so he could track the fall of his blood pressure during his stay as the medication made him laxer, more pliant.

The food that he ate with his hands, the end of a plastic spoon too dangerous if it was dragged across the wall enough times to chisel it into a point. There was an indignity in it, bowing over a plastic tray and using his fingers to bring food to his mouth as orderlies watched- handing utensils to those who earned it.

“This isn’t a punishment, Will,” William said, voice straining as he struggled to remain measured, pulling Will from his spiraling thoughts and the breaths becoming ragged, pushed through too-quick lungs. “You need help, and I can’t give it. I’m trying to _help_ you.”

“By locking me up?” Will shouted, words spiked in hysteria. “I didn’t do _anything_.”

“I can’t leave you alone! You spend half the night sleepwalking, you _stole a car_ last week and you-” he pinched his lips shut, teeth chewing on the soft flesh as he paused, taking a steadying breath. “You’re not well, Will. And I will never forgive myself if something happens to you because I didn’t want to make a difficult decision.”

Will sneered, canting himself as far away from the door as he could manage. “All of this because some cops thought I did something I _didn’t_ do?”

“It’s not that, Will!” William shouted now, the words booming and echoing in the stone walls of the spacious garage, trembling in aftershocks. “I’ve been thinking of this for a while and I just needed-”

Will’s eyes narrowed, thinking back to the evening before. When William asked to speak with Lecter in private for a moment, and the suggestion of the _reveillon_ dinner. He blanched, recalling how he felt like a dog receiving an extra heap of bacon before being driven to the vet and realized that it wasn’t entirely unfounded. He was being put down, and the thought turned his panic into swift, righteous anger. Before he could think better of it, he raised his foot and kicked against the hand curled around the frame, his dad hissing in pain as he pulled it back, shaking his hand out.

“Jesus Christ, are-”

“This whole time? You’ve been thinking of hospitalizing me this _whole time?”_ he hissed, betrayal making the words jagged. Betrayal at his dad, betrayal at Lecter for not warning him when he must have known- had at least an idea of what his dad was planning and instead left Will to figure it out. To be surprised and startled when he awoke in the parking garage, the sight of his home and his dogs in the window pulled from him so cruelly.

His dad grimaced, curled his hand into his stomach as he said, “I’ll call the security guards if I have to, but I don’t want to.”

“What, so you can get rid of me for the holiday until I’m back to being babysat by Chilton?”

His dad’s face fell, eyes averting and he clenched his jaw, an expression of guilt flickering over his face and Will’s heart might have burst at the words that followed, blood and tissue seeping between his ribs and trembling organs. “You’ll be here until a bed opens up...then you’ll be moved to a residential care facility. I’m sorry, Will.”

Will’s mouth fell open, lips twitching between the words that began but wouldn’t form. _Residential._

He wasn’t being hospitalized. He was being _committed._

Silence fell between them, and William took the opportunity to crouch down, his gaze more eye level with his son as he said, “I already called to make the arrangements. There’s a place in Des Moines- they specialize in...in kids like you. And they’ll be able to get you the help you need-”

“Kids like me?” Will repeated, the words a trembling whisper. He remembered glancing through the door of the interrogation room, Chilton and his dad there one moment and gone the next. Because he was making a few phone calls, Murphy had said. “What kind of kid am I?”

William faltered at the question, stammering over his words. “You’re not...I mean, you’re a good kid but you-”

Will laughed, a hollow, manic sound that rang in the shell of the parking lot, in the space between him and his dad that felt so vast and distant despite being only two feet apart. Close enough to see the wetness lining the red eyes and the deep purple bags pulling his eyes down. Like bruises against his sallow skin. “Good kids don’t get committed. Or dragged to the police station at midnight, though, right? So, either I’m a good kid and this is a mistake, or you think I need to be locked up to make sure I don’t go on a spree. With all the other _good kids,_ right?”

His voice was cold, unkind as he sneered the words and they made his father flinch, lips falling into a deep frown. The same frown he offered in response to Will’s twitching smile, the unbridled delight at hearing his dad say those words that had moments earlier tasted freedom and now just felt like imprisonment again. A different sort of imprisonment and the part of him not bent and crooked in his overwhelming surge of anger wanted to cry. Shed tears at the thought that he would never have the freedom he wanted, the ownership of himself because he was too unwell to be given that privilege.

It wasn’t _fair_.

“I’m just trying to keep you safe-”

Will lurched forward, spit flying from his lips as he hissed words like venom. “ _Safe?_ Because you’ve been doing such a good job at that until now.”

The words were a blade, cutting deep and his dad- still crouching- leaned back on his heels, jaw slung open and blinking at the words. “I know I haven’t been doing a good job, Will, _that’s why I’m doing this._ I can’t...do this anymore! Don’t you think I know I’m not enough to help you?” he yelled, slamming his uninjured hand against the door for emphasis. “I have been trying for years to understand you-”

“Bullshit!”

“I have!” he barked, voice hoarse with the shout. “I have been, and you just shut everyone out. You don’t _want_ to be understood. By me or Chilton or any of the other doctors you’ve had. And I don’t know what else to do. I’m _scared_ for you, Will. Because even though you didn’t do it, you stood in a police station filled with cops and your therapists and _smiled_ when I told you a man who’s been treating you since you were a child was killed.” William paused, aborted, unfulfilled laughs tumbling from his lips and there were tears now in his eyes- no longer the tentative start to them but full, fat tears cutting across his cheeks.

There was something unsettling about it- seeing his father cry. A man who seemed to grasp and clutch onto every other emotion imaginable to avoid the sinking plummet of sorrow and the tears it inspired. It was unnatural; parents weren’t meant to crumble like this. They were meant to be the bedrock of foundation, the strong earth that their children could build their own lives upon. And instead, the bedrock was cracking, crumbling into the waves of an ocean slowly eroding him away.

“They saw it, Will,” he said, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I spent _hours_ telling them you were a good kid and that you would never hurt anyone and about your dogs and then they saw you smile. You may be innocent but you looked pretty damn guilty, Will.”

Will considered him a moment, considered the tears that slipped over his jaw, tapering together at his chin. “I’m glad he’s dead,” he said, watching as the words made his dad shudder, made him mumble something incoherent beneath his breath as he buried his head in his hands. “I hope he suffered. And I’m not going to feel bad about it. Even if it makes me look guilty.”

“Goddammit, Will, please,” he begged, slowly pulling his hands down his face. “Help me understand because I am trying to understand and defend you but every day I recognize you less and less. What happened to the little boy I used to know?”

Perhaps it was the accusation lacing the words, the blame that sat in the space between the syllables that made Will bristle, scoff as if _he_ was the one responsible for it. As if he slaughtered the little boy and assumed his place like a changeling, hands stained red from innocent blood. But the words and anger soured, spilled between his ribs and he was _tired_. Tired of keeping a secret to defend someone else. Defending a person who deserved the rot and spit on his grave.

He was tired of being the one to bear the weight, to crumble beneath it, and suffer when he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He wanted others to hurt, for a change. He wanted everyone else to feel the pain and torment that for so long he carried in his chest, ribs cracking with the pressure. The pain that burrowed in his skin, that he cut into his own flesh because it was preferable to the other sort of pain. The one that lingered in his brain.

He didn’t realize he was crying until he leaned forward to speak, hearing the way his own words trembled with his sobs. “What _happened_ to me? Sutcliffe happened,” he hissed, voice hitching as he added, “and _you_ left me alone with him.”

His dad blinked, brows knitting in thought as the words settled, etched into his brain. Will saw the moment realization struck, slow and creeping. Like the pull of the water back into the ocean after crashing to the shore, disrupting the sand. The eyes that widened, horror bleeding into the dark hazel irises, colors cut into shards. His lips curled in disgust, edges tapered in regret, and with a notion that was part smug, part somber, Will realized his dad finally understood him.

He rose his foot again, kicking out in a hard snap that collided with William’s face. The sound of cartilage crunching beneath his soles reverberated around him, sounding vindictive and righteous all at once. His dad stumbled to the floor of the garage, groaning as a hand curled over his broken nose, blood spilling between his fingers.

Will reached out, slamming the truck door and locking it with a click, the rise and fall of his lungs and hammering of his heart filling out all the empty space that now sat in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder baby :(


	29. Aspirate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Angst angst angst angst (also even though there is a flashback scene there is still no explicit scenes depicting abuse; don’t worry, that feels too much like exploitation for my tastes)

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Aspirate**

_(Seven years earlier)_

William awoke with a groan, rubbing his eyes as he pulled himself up from the bed. It was the sort of waking that came slowly, with the awareness that something, in particular, awoke him but unsure of what. Too early for his alarm or the general noise of day to make him stir and he frowned at the alarm clock, the red, glowing numbers a taunt in the dark. Two thirty-seven in the morning.

He pulled himself up from the bed, floor creaking beneath his steps as he stalked down the hall. It was bathed in shadows, but he had lived in the house long enough by now to know how many steps between his room and his son’s- thirteen.

He pushed the door open, eyes narrowing at the room- illuminated by the golden glow of a nightlight. The bed was empty, stripped down to the bare mattress and he peered around the door, glancing into all four corners. “Will?” he asked, though he received no answer.

He tried not to let his panic overwhelm him. He tried to reason with the instinct that flared within him. His son had developed a recent enough habit of sleepwalking, brought on from the stress of such a big move. The sight of his empty bed in the middle of a night was not an unusual one by now, and though he eyed the mattress- floral stitching visible from where he stood- he walked away from the room and down the stairs. The safety locks he installed after he first found Will sleepwalking would ensure he stayed within the house, and his heartbeat settled in increments, panic chased away with logic.

The kitchen light was on when he rounded the stairs, and he could hear the sound of metal clattering, something scooting noisily across the floor. “Will?” he asked again, entering the kitchen. The door to the garage was open and he spat out a curse at his own stupidity. He ensured the side door and the back door and the front door were all secured, but had overlooked the garage.

He was relieved when he entered, finding his son standing on a stool in front of the washing machine, wet curls dripping down his pajama shirt. “Will? What are you doing?” He frowned when the young boy gasped, turning around so quickly he nearly slipped from the stool before catching himself. William was already halfway through the garage, a hand reaching out that held air, falling to his side now that Will was steady.

He glanced at the washing machine, metal mouth tossed open to reveal the basin below, blankets and sheets tangled together as Will tried to shove them in. He turned his gaze back to him, realizing he was dressed in different clothes than the ones he went to bed in. “Did you wet the bed?”

His cheeks turned pink at the accusation, and he shook his head. “No! I was...it was sweat.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Will,” William said simply, turning his attention to the washing machine and untangling the bedding. There was the acrid smell of urine, and he tried to steal his grimace to not further embarrass the young boy. He pushed the wash into the tub of the washer, reaching to the shelf overhead for the detergent and measuring out a generous enough pour considering the source of the stains. “Are you feeling well? You’re not sick are you?”

“No!” Will hissed, the tone petulant- made even more so by the defiant crossing of his arms over his chest. “I’m not sick.”

William closed the lid on the washing machine, reaching a hand out to press his palm against Will’s forehead. The boy grimaced, shirking away from the touch but he was cool enough that he let him, turning back to the settings on the washing machine. “You don’t have a fever. Maybe you’re drinking too much water before bed.”

“It was sweat,” Will mumbled, and he decided to drop the matter. It wasn’t worth pushing his humiliation.

“Well, next time you wake up that sweaty let me know. I don’t like the idea of you showering while I’m asleep. You could slip and hurt yourself. And I’ll help you with washing your sheets,” he said. The machine blared noisily before chugging, water pouring into the basin, and churning with a steady thump as it rocked against the floor. He tapped a hand against Will’s shoulder, signaling for him to jump down from the stool, and he followed his father as they left the garage.

“When will it be done? I want to go back to bed,” Will asked.

William gave him a sheepish grin. “Not for a while, kid,” he said, smile slipping when Will scowled, the expression looking far too serious and solemn on his young face. “You can just sleep in my bed tonight.”

“I don’t want to sleep in your bed,” he whined.

“What’s the matter? Getting too old for it?” he teased, bending at the waist and gripping his knees so he was more eye level with him. Will huffed, lips pouting and William sighed, realizing his son was in no mood for his humor tonight. He straightened his spine, running a hand through his hair. “I can sleep on the couch and you can take the bed?” he offered, and Will considered the proposition, blue eyes narrowing before giving a slow nod.

They walked up the stairs together, Will trailing behind as William lead him to his room. He grabbed the rumpled covers he had hastily pushed aside when he first awoke and held them back, waiting for Will to settle on the bed before letting it flutter down around the small boy, hands smoothing out the wrinkles.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, his voice quiet in the dark room. “For waking you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” William said, glancing at his son. He set his palm on his forehead once more, skin clammy beneath his hand, only for Will to frown and bat it away. “Just making sure you’re not sick. You sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I said I’m _not sick_ ,” Will asserted stubbornly, his tone trembling the line between bratty and hostile, grinding the words between his teeth. A tone he used with greater frequency, often accompanied by an eye roll or sharp slam of a door or a small fist to the table. He was always a precocious child, an old soul his mother had called him. Wary and annoyed at the world from the moment he first entered it. But his wariness had taken a turn into bitterness.

William sighed as he adjusted the blankets before letting his hands still, remaining crouched by the bed. “What's gotten into you lately?” he said, trying to keep the words light despite the exhaustion creeping into them. He was tired, sleeping less and less ever since his son began his nightly wandering. Eight hours of sleep dwindling down to an interrupted five.

Will’s face softened, the harsh lines created by his pout gone now. Cheeks round like a cherub, though they were already beginning to slim, becoming narrow with age. “I want to go home,” he said, whispering the word into the dark space between, shadows of the night swathing them.

He frowned, scratching at his chin. “We are home, Will. I know you miss our old home but it...it’s not, it wouldn’t be the same anyway,” he said. It wasn’t the home Will missed, the cramped two-bedroom home with butter yellow siding and sage green trim. It was the grandmother who lived with them, acting the role of the mother taken from him too soon; sitting him on a chair beside the counter and teaching him to cook, combing his curls into something nearing presentable each Sunday before departing for church.

Her passing had not been sudden- she was older and sick despite her refusal to say otherwise, denying doctors until it was too late and the cancer in her lungs had spread too far and too deeply. She faded slowly over a matter of months from there, until one evening she left for the hospital and never returned.

It had not been sudden, and yet William had been startled by the reality of truly, wholly raising Will on his own. It was not something he had ever been prepared for- who was, after all? One rarely considered the possibility of single parenthood as they listened to the stilted, mechanical wave of a heartbeat for the first time; felt the flutter of a tiny fist beneath the skin of a protruding belly. Even after his wife died, his own mother and father had been quick to fill the role, moving into the master bedroom as William strategically arranged a bookshelf and wardrobe in the dining room, replacing a table with a bed and resigning himself to it.

It was a blessing, he realized, the support they had. But he allowed himself too much comfort in the support, and it wasn’t until he was dressing Will for the funeral that he realized how little physical affection there was between them. Not that Will himself wasn’t affectionate- he had a habit of sneaking into his grandmother’s bed at night that pervaded even after she passed, as if the lingering smell of her perfume and cosmetics would be as comforting as her embrace.

Yet, William had never been the one to sweep him into his arms or offer him kisses. Even the words _I love you_ sat on his tongue and never moved much further. Perhaps it was a layover from his own childhood, his father too reserved for such displays and ingraining him with a sense that that was simply the way fathers were. Assuring in their strength and stoicism. Mothers were the soft ones, the comforting ones with warm arms and soft kisses. The absence of Will’s own mother to offer such adoration had never been an issue when his grandmother filled the space left behind in her death.

But now there was no one to fill the same space left empty once more, and he was unsure how to assume the role. Worried it might seem forced or too much like him trying to replace something that couldn’t be replaced. The few hugs he gave Will had been awkward, the young boy wriggling out of his arms after a few seconds hesitation and he surmised that he had lost his opportunity for such affection. That Will was getting older now anyway and probably would be too embarrassed by his father kissing his cheek or pulling him into hugs.

He stopped trying, one final hug on the day of Will’s ninth birthday that he had grumbled at, rolling his eyes and stiffening beneath him until William finally relented.

“I know you miss your grandmaw,” he said with a small, sad smile. Will averted his gaze, eyes shiny even in the darkness. “But this is our home now.” Will said nothing, the silence a cutting accusation. The first taste of rebellion, resentment at his father for dragging him away from the place he had grown up in. Even if he had no friends to tie him to the city, he still clung to New Orleans with stubborn hands. William sighed, chewing his lip as he added, “I was going to keep this a surprise, but maybe it will cheer you up.”

He smiled when Will slowly turned his gaze back to him, expression guarded but curious. “A client of mine has a dog that just had some puppies. Now that we have a yard and you’re a little older, I thought it might not be such a bad idea to get you the dog you’ve been begging for since you learned to talk,” he said good-naturedly, his smile widening as Will’s own lips twitched into a tentative grin, revealing small, pearly teeth; a hole in the row of his lower jaw where one of his baby teeth had been pushed free.

“Can I get two?” he asked, pulling a laugh from his dad as he stood, knees creaking at the motion.

“Two? What do you think this is, a zoo?”

“He’ll need a friend,” Will said simply, shrugging easily.

William rose a brow. “You’ll be his friend. He won’t need competition.”

“I’ll be at school all day, though. He’ll get lonely.”

William laughed, pleased at the sight of the wide smile stretching on his son’s face, eyes gleaming with renewed joy. It had been so long since he saw that smile- sometime before Will’s grandmother was last admitted to the hospital, before he keenly felt the absence of a mother-figure in his life for the first time- and he hated knowing it would be gone too soon, smoothed in the calm nothingness of sleep. “Well, if you do a good job of training and taking care of this one, maybe- _maybe_ \- we’ll get a second one. Okay?”

Will nodded emphatically, smiling even as he turned to his side and closed his eyes. William left the room, already preparing himself for the responsibility of a second dog when he only meant to have one, knowing his son’s determination would ensure their new puppy would be so well-trained and cared for William would have no choice but to follow his end of the deal.

Not as if he cared too much. He had almost forgotten what his son’s smile looked like. He would give anything to see it again.

~x~

_(Present day)_

The concrete floor of the parking garage was cold and unforgiving as William fell against him, unable to catch himself in time as one hand instinctively held to his nose. He was thankful there were no nearby cars for him to collide with, no alarms to blare and echo within the confines of his skull. There was already enough noise in there as it was, the words Will had hissed before crunching his nose beneath his foot like the booming explosion of a grenade. The thoughts and words that followed like shrapnel from the blast, impaling him in the revelation.

His nose stung sharply, each breath bringing with it a bright burst of pain and the blood in his palm was warm and thick- but he ignored it all anyway, unable to focus on something so trivial as he slunk into the recesses of his mind. Memories stretching before him, plucked from somewhere deep. Forgettable memories, otherwise unremarkable were now contorted, horrifying in a way that burrowed into his bones and settled in his marrow. Made his stomach twist and pull in separate directions and something heave in his throat, burning like acid.

There was a distinct one of sitting in the car, stuck in traffic as they drove to an appointment and Will whined in the backseat. Muttering about how he hated all the tests Sutcliffe did and he assumed he met the MRIs and CT scans because the machines were so big yet narrow and the mechanical whir was overwhelming.

He remembered his response, that the tests were important to make sure he was healthy and the acid rose in his throat, filling his mouth and he leaned over, spitting out blood and acrid bile.

There was a part of his brain that tried to speak above the chaos, tried to reason with all the _things_ filling his chest and all the memories made insidious and bent. A part that told him he was assuming something that hadn’t been said, that Will had uttered something so sparse that he was filling in the vastness with a wicked imagination that was running away from him.

But wasn’t that a testament to the truth of it? That he needed to only hear those few words for the memories to slot into his brain, clicking in place like a puzzle and it _made so much sense._

He didn’t need to know the details to know that the things his mind summoned to fill the blank space made sense in a way that seemed so painfully obvious now. Each shirk beneath his touch, each muted tantrum that followed the scheduling of another appointment.

The same part of his brain- _traitorous_ \- tried to remind him that Will had a tendency to lie and manipulate but the thought was tossed so quickly it almost spurred whiplash, revulsion making the acid in his stomach bubble once more. Sutcliffe had been the first to diagnose Will as a psychopath; the first to label him as a liar and a manipulator and the words in his head were not his own but the words of the man who had abused his son for _years._

That he allowed to do so for years.

He had so wrongfully assumed his son was collapsing under his grief and struggling to cope with all the changes in his life and in his attempt to fix it- appointments for sleepwalking, for bedwetting, for lack of appetite and aggression- he was making it worse.

He was only trying to _help_ him.

Was he to blame? Was there something he should have seen, an admission Will made that couldn’t be attributed to something else? Was there a bias in his brain, an awareness he lowered because Will was a boy and he had grown up in a world rife with prejudice; friends with daughters who told him how lucky he was to not have to be as vigilant of suitors or unwanted attention? That others would look at Will with his blue eyes and smooth curls and tell William his son would be a heartbreaker while warning the fathers of daughters they’d have to beat boys off with a stick?

Blood slipped between his lips, and he tasted it on his tongue, preferring it to the taste of regret and self-loathing that was colliding into him with the force of a hurricane. Winds so strong he felt he would be torn apart. He grimaced, ran a clean hand through his hair, and pulled at it sharply as the memories continued to flood him.

A deluge of all his failures- his blindness.

Blood, tears, and spit were coating his face, and he bunched up the sleeve of his jacket to use the flannel sleeve beneath to dab at his nose.

He did not know how long he sat there, but when the flow of the blood began to ease he realized that it was probably too long. That eventually the inertia would have to give way to something.

But what?

What was he supposed to do now?

There was no manual for this, no chapter in all the parenting books that sat in the neat rows in bookstores, flanked between pregnancy journals and books filled with thousands of names. Thousands of names, each with different meanings yet all meaning love when they were written down on the line of the birth certificate. When they were said with adoration or admonishment to the small growing child. Will was named after him and William meant protection and it was the sort of thought that might have inspired a hollow laugh but even the comfort of false humor seemed unreachable to him now.

He pulled himself up from the ground, still pressing his sleeve to his nose as he wandered around the truck and bowed forward, bracing himself against the truck bed.

In a different situation, he might have gone down to the police station to make a report but what was the point? The dead could not stand trial and he was unsure if it was a better or worse fate this way; if Will would even want to sit before a jury and maybe it was better after all.

He thought of calling the security from the hospital to drag Will out for a different concern altogether but the thought left a sour taste that curdled and spoiled in his mouth. The thought of pulling him into more exam rooms, of _more_ _doctors_ felt akin to torture. The thought of leaving him as he would have to do when the visiting hours came to an abrupt end felt too much like abandonment.

_You left me alone with him_ , Will had said, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Refused to make his son feel so alone again and so the hospital was dismissed as an option, a sharp line drawn through the word like an ax.

He could call Doctor Lecter and it was the most appealing of ideas- he was Will’s therapist and Will seemed to trust him. Had even developed a good enough rapport that Hannibal had thought the idea of hospitalization to be too hasty when he mentioned it. That Will was only just beginning to trust him and it would undo the strides in their relationship.

But it was still Christmas even if the holiday spirit had turned into something fetid and he was unsure of how much was too much.

Maybe he could look it up- surely there were resources for this sort of thing; advice and guidance on what to say and what to do and how pathetic was that? What sort of a father needed to _google_ how to be a parent?

Was there an instinct he missed? An empty strain in his DNA that was supposed to instill the sort of intuitiveness needed to keep his son safe? The intuitiveness of what to do when he had failed to do so in the first place?

In the end, when the blood had clotted so thick in his nostrils he could not breathe through them, he sighed, slowly pulling himself from the tailgate and moving to the driver’s side. He had to unlock it, thankful he had kept the keys with him when he first stepped out, and he slid into the seat. The truck was cold by now and Will was shivering though it was just as likely to be from the tapering thrum of adrenaline as it was the chill.

They sat in silence, Will sunk low in the seat with his feet resting on the dashboard, face burying into his knees.

“We-” William began, pausing to chew his lip when he realized he had no idea what to say. If he had felt up a stream without a paddle before, then surely now he had been flipped over the waterfall, the boat capsized and dragging him towards an ocean. He swallowed, slipped the keys into the ignition, and tapped against the swinging keychains that bobbed with the motion. “We’re going to have to talk about it.”

Will stiffened beside him, and he saw a hand slide across the door, reaching for the handle. “Not now,” he amended, realizing his son probably felt trapped. Held hostage in the parking lot and a painful conversation and was clearly ready to choose the option of flight. “Later. Eventually.”

Will hesitated, but eventually, he pulled his hand away from the door, settling it on the laces of his shoes and pulling at them idly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s not really an option anymore,” William said, though he winced as he said it. It wasn’t a talk he was looking forward to any more than Will, but he understood the necessity of it. Understood now the damage that had been done by not talking.

Slowly, reluctantly, Will nodded, and William released a breath that did nothing to unwind the pressure in his chest, threatening to snap his ribs. He turned the keys, and the rest of the drive home was filled with silence, the looming shape of his regret for all the things he did wrong not leaving room for anything else.

~x~

Will was jumping out of the truck before it had even pulled in park, heart hammering as he bolted up the steps. He fumbled with the keys in his pocket- thanking every god his memory could name that he had thought to bring them with him- and managed to unlock the door on his fourth attempt. He purposefully left the door open- letting the dogs free, knowing they were in need of a run and that wrangling them would delay his dad for a few precious moments as he gathered himself.

He ran up the stairs without taking off his coat or shoes, slamming the door to his bedroom and, when he still felt too open and vulnerable in the small space, slid open the folding door of his closet and stepped inside. He dropped himself to the floor, sitting beneath the hanging shirts.

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall and tried to swallow his heart back down to where it belonged.

It steadied, slowly, and when his hands no longer shook he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, calling the contact while the anger and betrayal were still fresh in his blood.

“ _Hello, Wi-”_ Lecter began, the cheery tone coming to a clipped end when Will interrupted him.

“Fuck you.”

A moment of quiet followed the insult until Lecter eventually said, _“Is everything alright, Will?”_

There were traces of humor in the tone and that only flayed his anger further. “My dad just tried to hospitalize me,” he hissed, trying to imbue the words with all the malice he could manage.

“ _You didn’t take it well, I suppose?”_

Will scowled at the phone, hoping beyond reasonable hope the gesture would be communicated to the older man. “I broke his nose.”

A chuckle crackled over the speaker. _“Atta boy.”_

Will scoffed, furrowing his brow. “You knew, didn’t you? He told you about it the other night and you didn’t tell me.”

“ _You didn’t ask,”_ Lecter said simply, and he supposed he appreciated that he didn’t try to lie but the admission made him growl, slap a hand against the door before him.

“You should have told me! I shouldn’t have had to ask!” he struggled to keep his voice low, not wanting his father to hear him.

“ _I told your father that I thought it would do well to consider it more before coming to a decision. Perhaps it was an oversight on my part. I should have realized the suspicion you would fall under might be enough to guide his hand in the matter,”_ he said, the accent pulled in exhaustion. Was he still with the FBI, investigating his own crime scene? Or had the promise of enjoying the rest of the holidays and knowing there would be no evidence to examine been enough for the team of investigators to return home? _“Either way, the fact that you’re calling tells me he wasn’t successful. He changed his mind, even after you broke his nose?”_

Will sighed, rubbing at his eyes, his own exhaustion creeping into him even as the hold of adrenaline refused to relinquish control. “We got into a fight and I just...couldn’t keep it in anymore. When he got back in the car he didn’t say much, just that we would have to _talk_ ,” he said, hissing the word with vitriol. As if it was poison spat from his lips. “Then we drove home.”

Lecter gave a thoughtful hum. _“You know what my favorite part was of all the reveillon dinners I attended?”_ he asked, and Will rolled his eyes, knowing the man well enough by now to know he was being dragged into a metaphor, perfectly curated for the moment. He didn’t answer, letting the quiet invite him to continue, and eventually, Lecter added, _“The trou Normand. Are you familiar with it? I’m not sure if the same tradition exists in New Orleans.”_

“Yes,” he ground out. It was a tradition he had never participated in, too young for the cocktail served between courses of food. His grandmother would sometimes give him a glass filled with sorbet and sparkling cider, but the sugar had a habit of giving him a headache and he would be too cranky for the rest of the hours-long banquet.

“ _Excellent. So you know then it’s served to pause and extend the meal, to aid in digestion and as a palate cleanser for the next course,”_ he explained anyway, and an insult sat on Will’s tongue about how much the man like to hear himself speak when he added, _“You told me at the police station that you didn’t think you could return to your reveillon dinner. Perhaps you and your father are merely experiencing a trou Normand instead of an end to the feast. A pause between courses to cleanse your palate.”_

Will groaned, lowering his head to his knees. “That has got to be your worst one yet,” he muttered, rubbing at his brow. “And you’re lying. You don’t do oversights. You knew my dad would be pushed to hospitalize me when Sutcliffe went missing and you knew I would tell him to get out of it.”

His accusation lacked the bite it had before, mellowing as he sat in the dark quiet of his closet, letting the events of the past few days slide into acceptance. His father knew now, and no amount of shouting and cursing at Lecter would change that. The words couldn’t be unsaid. “You said you wouldn’t force my hand in the matter,” he added, letting his betrayal ice the vowels, sharpen the consonants.

“ _I forced nothing, Will. You can blame me all you want, but the words came from you- prompted only by your desire to keep the freedom you only just managed to claim and a desire to be seen and understood,”_ Lecter said, words soft and curling against his ear.

“Fuck you,” he said again, more for something to say than because he meant it.

“ _Do you feel better or worse now that your father knows the truth?”_ Lecter asked, ignoring the crude words and Will sighed loudly, knowing the sound would be a noisy burst of air.

“I don’t know yet,” he said after a moment of rumination. His chest felt empty, devoid of the aching pressure that threatened to burst through and he was happy to be sitting in his bedroom instead of in the intake room of a hospital, waiting to be committed. But his stomach was in knots, dreading the conversation his father promised would happen, and with it came waves of nausea. So many things tangled, uncertainty knotting his intestines until they were painful.

His dad seemed to believe him, which was more than he expected, so convinced that everyone thought him a liar and a manipulator. But with the belief came a different set of fear; shame and humiliation. He was afraid that his dad might look at him with disgust, see him not as the young boy he was when it began but the older boy- almost a man- who should have been more than capable to stop him. That his dad would wonder why he allowed it to happen and he was unsure of how to explain the phenomena that struck him the moment he stepped into the lobby. The way he shrunk in the presence of the man, become small and agreeable in a manner that would sicken him hours later, regretting his own inability to fight.

And then there was the fear that others would know. The anxiety of being fitted with another label. A more vulgar label that tasted like iron in his mouth. As if there only two categories for him to be set within: _victim_ and _didn’t fight hard enough_.

Neither were appealing.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the muffled sound of a knock, barely heard from within the closet. “Will? Can I come in please?”

Will blinked at the seam between the panels of the door, gripping the phone tighter in his hands. He didn’t say goodbye, hanging up the phone with the knowledge that Lecter would understand and he pushed the door open, slowly crawling out into his bedroom. “Yeah,” he called, a moment too late so that it was awkward but he hadn’t realized his dad was waiting for his permission until then.

The door opened slowly, his dad standing in the entryway, glancing around the room as if uncertain of where he fit in the space. His face was washed of all the blood, nose swollen and an ugly shade of violet and there was a small surge of satisfaction at the sight of it. Years of resentment and anger painted across his pale skin in sallow yellows and hideous blues.

He watched as his dad took several steps forward, rocking back and forth on his heels and bringing a hand up to run through his hair. He sighed, a blustery sound that sat heavy and full in the space between them, and the effort of coming up with what to say was a painful thing. Lips twitching, parting only to snap close and a blush was creeping up his collar.

He was never good with words- a habit Will supposed he inherited from him.

Finally, when he had scrutinized and examined every aspect of Will’s room as if attempting to commit it all to memory, he said in a soft, solemn voice, “Was it...I mean...did he always, or did it start later..?”

He winced at his own wording, and Will grimaced, folding his arms over his chest in discomfort. He wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor beneath him and vanish from the moment. His tongue was tied, and he was uncertain if he could do it. Release the words that he had held onto for so long they were as much a part of him as his blue eyes or his diseased brain.

But he didn’t want them to be a part of him anymore. He wanted to excise them like the tumor they were.

He forced himself to swallow, stuttering over the confession. “He...always. It just got...worse later,” he said, hoping it was enough. That his dad wouldn’t be so cruel to demand specifics. Wouldn’t interrogate him the way a police officer would or the way a defense attorney would, using his inability to answer as the argument to free the man who clipped his tongue in the first place.

William grimaced, a hand covering his mouth and dragging over his jaw so roughly that the skin pulled with the action. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, and the words were slanted. Not in blame or accusation but desperation, eyes wet with unshed tears, and Will had to glance away, the sight of his dad crying still too unsettling. Too overwhelming in an already overwhelming moment.

He rolled his hands in his shirt, tugging and pulling at the hem as he shrugged. “Everyone thought I was a liar,” he muttered. “And he’s...he _was_ your friend.” The reality still had yet to stick, but the utterance of the word _was_ brought with it a power that soothed the moment some, emboldened him.

William sputtered. “And you’re my _son,_ Will!” he said, volume rising and his tone becoming thin. Not quite falling over the cliff of hysteria but moving ever closer, teetering on the edge. “I have never...I never thought,” he stammered over the words, sighing when he could not find them. He gave a small, huffing laugh that turned into the tapered beginning of a sob that he quickly stifled, bottled back up. “I know I’m not good at talking. I didn’t mean for you to think that meant I wasn’t good at listening, though.”

He continued to pull at the hem of his shirt, glancing down at his feet- still covered in the shoes he had been too frantic to kick off- and chewed his lip. “Are you...still going to send me to Des Moines?” he asked, knowing he evaded the hospital but his name still sat on a waiting list for an even more offensive program. One that promised years of confinement instead of only weeks.

“I already called and canceled,” William said, and his shoulders slouched in relief, thankful for the freedom he had fought so hard for. “I didn’t...I don’t think that’s best for you. Not that I know what is but...just not that, I guess.”

Will nodded slowly, jaw unclenching as the tension left him. Tension that left behind something stripped and raw, a vulnerability unlike the vulnerability he had experienced before. More akin to the one he felt when devising and enacting his plan with Lecter but...kinder.

Less cruel.

Softer where the other had been sharp.

“I’m sorry-” he said, only for his dad to interrupt, taking another step forward.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” William asserted, reaching a hand out that came to a sudden halt, fingers curling in the air. It slid in an arch between them, settling at William’s side. “Can I...can I hug you?”

Will blinked at the question, unsure if he could even recall the last time his dad hugged him. He had never been very affectionate, even when Will was young and was still open to the thought rather than horrified of it. There were a few embraces, awkward and clumsy as if William was uncertain of how exactly they should fit together and Will doubted that there would be any more grace now that Will was taller and broader.

Still, he gave a jerky nod.

It _was_ awkward. The first few motions of it unpracticed and jarring, and Will remained still, fingers splayed over the side of his legs as the arms first wound around him. It was funny, really, how _bad_ they both were at what was supposed to be an easy and loving gesture and he opened his mouth to let out a laugh but a sob spilled out instead. The sound made William tighten his hold, something like instinct taking over and soon Will found his place in the embrace, head resting against his dad’s shoulder and his own arms rising to wrap around his middle.

A hand rose, pressing firmly to the crown of his head and he heard his father mumbling something, the words too quiet to be coherent and he strained to listen, finally distinguishing the rambled together syllables. _“I’msorryi’msorryi’msorry-”_

He struggled for something to say in turn. He considered the words his dad said to him- _you have nothing to be sorry for_ \- but there was still too much bitterness and resentment to say it with sincerity or wanting to offer the placating words in the first place. He considered saying something else- _it’s fine_ \- before deciding that that too was not right. That it wasn’t fine and it would be an obvious lie that would satisfy neither of them.

Instead, he settled for something else. Something that was not a lie and that he hoped might ease his dad’s guilt without feeling too much like absolving him. “I know,” he said, and the train of apologies came to an end, replaced by a solemnly spoken _I love you_.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote like 10,000 words of torture but this was the hardest chapter to write? That says something about me as a person, and I don’t think it’s anything good. Also, I’m not sure a Hannibal fic is the best place to get into the gender roles and stereotypes that further victimize both girls AND boys but here we are. 
> 
> I know some people wanted to see some sort of big takedown of Sutcliffe where evidence is found or other accusers, but honestly, that main loose threads of the story are already in the process of being tied up and such a storyline would extend it a few more chapters to do it justice. Besides, I think Will would be mortified to know there were pictures or something like that and I think the poor baby has been punished enough. It’s time to heal, dammit!
> 
> Only a few more chapters left now. I won’t give a specific count because my wordiness has a way of making me a liar. 
> 
> Next up: Will attends his first therapy session after all of...this.


	30. Banquet

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Banquet**

“It was a good kick, but I don’t think you’ll be leaving with the referral for a plastic surgeon,” Hannibal said with a small grin, straightening his spine and pulling his hands away from William’s face. “I can write you a script for some antibiotic but otherwise it will heal on its own.”

William stepped back on his heels, hands bracing against the counter as Hannibal moved to the other side, washing his hands methodically. It was December twenty-six, as long as he was willing to wait before calling the doctor to update him on the situation at hand. Thankfully, the man had been understanding and was not bothered by yet another interruption to his holiday and even invited William over for lunch to discuss the matter further.

It occurred to him he should probably think about getting him a belated gift but one glance around the ornate and luxurious home made him reconsider. Anything he would think of would feel unimpressive. Plebian, even, he thought with a wince.

“How is Will doing?” Hannibal asked, drying his hands on a dishcloth before turning to the two plates of food. Chestnut and mushroom pate smeared over crostini, served with sauteed lamb kidneys and he wondered wryly if the man ever ate something simple. A brief thought crept into his mind of extending an offer to cook a meal for him and he had to bit his lip to keep his laughter locked inside. It was a humorous thought, imagining him in his three-piece suit, sitting in their rarely used dining room that served more for storage than food, hunched over a bowl of Campbell’s soup and a grilled cheese.

Thankfully, the laughter stayed inside where it belonged, and he sighed as he followed Hannibal into the dining room, sitting down at the place setting with a thanks. “As well as can be expected, I guess? He slept most of the day afterward and was quiet at dinner,” he said, leaning an elbow on the table before remembering that it was considered rude and pulling it onto his lap. “I mean...not much is all that different for him, I guess. It’s not...it doesn’t change anything he’s been through.” He frowned at the dish, fork dragging lines through the pate. His appetite waned, stomach churning with the guilt and hate that had been simmering within him ever since the previous day.

Hannibal glanced at him, considering him for a moment before saying, “No, it won’t change what has happened, but things have changed. He’ll be able to feel more secure and can begin to heal. And, more importantly, now that we know we can give him the proper tools and support he needs to ensure that happens.”

He grunted in response, unable to string together coherent words. He cleared his throat, scratched his chin as he finally said, “I just...wish he said something sooner. Why wouldn’t he say something sooner?” He didn’t blame Will. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been, his heart clenching at the thought of how alone his son must have felt for all those years. Too young to even have the words to describe what was happening, to even understand it was wrong and the wave of nausea that overcame him at the thought made him reach for his glass of water, sipping it slowly until it was half gone.

“It is hard to not internalize abuse, especially when someone is groomed to accept the abuse as a standard part of their life. He didn’t see it as a terrible thing that happened _to_ him so much as he saw it as a shameful thing _about_ him. He saw the abuse as reflective of him, not Sutcliffe. Which made it all the harder to share,” Hannibal reasoned, and the blunt words felt like a strike, each syllable bringing with it a new sort of anguish. _Abuse_ and _groomed_ words which curdled with repulsion. “Not to mention, Sutcliffe discredited him by taking advantage of his mental health to label him a psychopath.”

“Do _you_ think Will is a psychopath?” William asked, slowly pushing the plate away from him and hoping the motion went unnoticed. It was rude, but his stomach twisted and just the sight of the creamy paste and steaming cuts of meat made the acid in his belly simmer.

“No, I don’t,” he said after swallowing a bite, his chews slow and thoughtful. “I think that he’s been hurting greatly and as a child with limited development, he utilized the tools he had to cope. So many of his doctors chose to listen to Sutcliffe instead of Will, and after enough people telling him he was a psychopath, he fit the mold they set for him. A self-fulfilling prophecy.”

William exhaled, slouching forward in his seat. “I never did agree with that. But what did I know? I’m not a doctor and I thought...I should have fought harder,” he admitted, grinding the confession through his teeth.

Hannibal said nothing, the silence feeling like an agreement to a statement. After a moment, he finally said, “I think it would be best if you and Will see a family therapist. I can write you a referral if you like.”

He blinked at the suggestion, picking up the fork and twirling it once more, needing something to do with his hands. “I...I’m not sure how Will would feel about _another_ doctor. Let me ask him first,” he said with a slow nod. He shifted with discomfort at the idea of sitting in a room and discussing all of this, but he supposed the discomfort was probably a good thing. Something he could tolerate and grit his teeth through if it would be better for his son. “I ugh...I was also thinking- and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way-” Hannibal frowned, lowering his fork at the words “-but I was going to ask Will if he...if he would prefer a female psychiatrist.”

Hannibal’s brows furrowed, insult clear even though it was muted, imparted on a neutral face and William hastily added, “I’m not accusing you or anything. I just want Will to know he has the option if he wants it. That’s all.” The harsh features relaxed, shoulders sloping and Hannibal nodded once as he turned back to his meal.

“Of course, I understand. It’s good for Will to know that arrangements will be made for him. He need only ask. I’ll prepare some referrals in case.”

He exhaled a sigh of relief, taking a small bite even if his stomach still roiled. “I’m going to pull him from the school program, too. I’ll home school if I have to, though I’m not really sure that’s the best option either. But anything is better than that, I think,” he said, biting his tongue to keep himself from rambling. He had no idea what was or wasn’t best but surely a course of treatment devised years ago was no longer adequate in the face of this new challenge. He tolerated the program because he understood the necessity of it, that the ramifications of Will hurting someone else was worth the indignity of the precautions.

But the idea of him being treated like a _criminal_ , like he did something _wrong_ was unacceptable to him now. He could rearrange his schedule, lower his workload to help Will with his studies and home school him. He was a smart kid, and he only had a year and a half left before graduating. Maybe Will would even want to help him fill the orders- he used to like it, once. Before his brewing resentment made it impossible to stand in the same room as his father.

“I think that’s best,” Hannibal agreed. “Have you spoken with Frederick yet?”

William let out a sputtering laugh, letting the hollow sound be the answer that Hannibal accepted, offering an amused smile of his own before adding, “I imagine you have a lot you want to say, then. We can arrange a meeting together with the three of us.”

“That may be best,” he said with a wry grin, knowing a part of him should be insulted that Hannibal was offering to chaperon but the other part of him agreeing that it was probably for the best. He doubted Chilton would much care for the idea, and William wasn’t good enough with words to find a polite way to tell the man to shove his _diagnoses up his ass._ If such a polite wording existed, he was sure Hannibal would be the one to find it.

“You know, it’s ironic,” William began, forcing himself to take another bite of food, the meat tender and savory beneath his teeth. “For years, all I ever wanted was to understand my son. But I couldn’t...I mean, how many people can relate to...that? His thoughts and fantasies. They scared me and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it.” Hannibal glanced up from his plate, setting his utensils down as he leaned forward, head tilting curiously to the side. “But now...now I understand what it’s like to want to rip someone apart.”

It was probably an unwise thing to say to the doctor treating his son for violent thoughts, but it was the truth. His own mind summoning up visions of what he would do if Sutcliffe were still alive, and he found himself wondering how similar his fantasies were to the ones his son had.

“Fortunately- or, unfortunately, I suppose- someone already beat you to it,” Hannibal said, voice spiked in something that seemed like humor but might have been William looking too deeply into it.

“Yeah, I watched the news report on it this morning,” he muttered, omitting the part where Will watched it too, standing behind him and trying not to make a sound because William was always careful to turn that sort of thing off around him. But he pretended he didn’t see his shadow against the wall, figuring that at the very least he deserved that much. “Seems almost unfair he gets to be known as the victim of a famous serial killer.”

Hannibal picked up his utensils once more, his voice low as he said, “for what it’s worth, I consult on the Ripper case. And all his victims die from extended torture and mutilation.”

He clenched his jaw, stabbing the tines of his fork into a piece of kidney. “That seems more fair,” he muttered, shoving the meat in his mouth.

~x~

“Dad says I’m not going back to Chilton’s program,” Will mused, voice raised to be heard from where he stood on the loft space to Lecter’s office, perusing the bookshelves with interest. Or rather, he was pretending to peruse the bookshelves, when in actuality he was dutifully rearranging the shelves in an attempt to annoy the man. A petty, childish act; still spiteful that Lecter didn't deign to warn him about the possibility of being hospitalized. But it that felt good all the same as he closed the _N_ section from the encyclopedia set and slid it in between the neatly organized medical journal.

Honestly, what individual needed to own an encyclopedia set anyway?

“His program is no longer relevant to your needs,” Lecter said, leaning against his desk with his hands in his pockets and glancing up at Will. Bourbon colored eyes followed his pacing through the loft, a small smile upturning his lips. _Fond_ , was the word Will thought of, hastily turning away with a frown.

“What are my needs, Doctor?” he asked, flipping through the pages of a thick, outdated copy of the _DSM_. An entire book dedicated to the mentally unwell, all the different ways a brain could be diseased were organized into categories and subcategories, complete with a checklist for easy diagnosing. He slapped the book closed, shoved it between a small selection of fictional works. First-edition classics, golden embossed titles on soft-worn leather. He grabbed a copy of _Paradise Lost,_ placing it where the _DSM_ had been, several bookcases down.

“A new treatment plan is being devised, but there are several different options to choose from here,” Lecter said, voice rising above the crackle of the fire and lifting to meet Will on the loft. “New diagnoses require new plans.”

Will frowned, depositing a book of poems in a foreign language- Italian, maybe- horizontally across assorted books on a shelf as he turned around, leaning against the rail. “New diagnoses?” he asked, knitting his brow.

“Chilton and I no longer believe a diagnosis of psychopathy to be accurate. You were misunderstood and misdiagnosed. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder seems more fitting,” he answered, and Will winced, groaning loudly.

“Chilton knows?”

Lecter looked apologetic as he explained, “I am required by law to report any instance of child abuse, and as part of your treatment team I had to reach out to him.”

Will snorted derisively. “We all know what a law-abiding citizen you are,” he mumbled, and the slight twitch of Lecter’s lips was the only indication he gave that he had heard the quip. “So, what? What happens now, I mean? He’s...he’s dead so it’s not like...” His stomach was twisting, a deep contortion at the thought of so many people knowing and judging him and the muscles in his stomach clenched with the desire to dry-heave.

“A report was filed with CPS, and any follow-up will be handled through your father and myself. Once the matter is finished, as it will be shortly considering the state of the accused, your name will be redacted from reports, as all identities are with minors, and the only way to unseal that information will be through a court-issued subpoena,” he said, tilting his head slowly to emphasize the words. “An unlikely occurrence. He’s dead, after all, and the likelihood of an investigation or trial is extremely low.”

Will pinched his lips, the tight coil of his stomach slowly unwinding. “And that’s that?”

“That’s that.”

He nodded, exhaling a shuddering breath as his fingers drummed against the railing. The thought of Chilton knowing still brought with it a different dread, but it was more tolerable. Easier to swallow and digest than the alternative. He thought once more of what a trial might have been like, too many disbelieving eyes. Court reports and news reports, having to detach himself from the words of accusation on the stand. Can’t be too emotional, as that would make him look unstable. Can’t be too clinical, as that would make him look like a liar.

The law was meant to be fair and unbiased- just; but what justice was that, telling someone to bubble down their hysteria, as they sat only feet away from a monster who was being given the platform and chance to prove he wasn’t a monster?

“Chilton probably thinks I’m lying,” Will muttered bitterly, turning away once more and returning to the bookshelves where he continued his rearranging.

“Chilton’s greatest flaw continues to be his inability to think for himself and to accept what is told to him by someone he unconsciously defers to as his superior,” Lecter said, hands pulling from his pockets to grip the side of his desk, eyes glittering warmly in the light thrown about the room from the fire. “With the right wording, one can even get Chilton to come to the right conclusion while making him believe it was his own intellect that drew him there.”

_Ah._

It was an odd parallel, Lecter using the same technique that Sutcliffe had to a different end. To help Will instead of hinder him and he was struck once more by the absurdity of his situation. How he managed to endear himself enough to a serial killer to be offered his hard-won protection. The perverse brand of nurture was a direct opposition to every other action the man indulged in. Deadly and caring in equal measure.

Though, Will supposed, most destructive things were. Water which nourished and drowned; fire which warmed and protected and burned. He thought of storms, the heavens raining down on parched and arid terrains in desperate need of it. He thought of floods sweeping away homes and those unfortunate enough to not move fast enough.

He frowned, chewed his lips. How long before Will would be drowned by the floods of Lecter’s attention? Before he lost his novelty and became dull, when Lecter grew bored of him and not even his pervading loneliness and desire to be known was enough to protect him from the heat of the flames of his affection?

Lecter was dangerous, destructive. Pulling Will into him the way a black hole pulled in whole universes with the might of its gravity, consuming them whole and spitting back more nothingness.

“So Will Graham is no longer a psychopath,” he mused, pivoting his thoughts away from the precipice they threatened to fall into, dragging him downward. “Do you really think I’m not a psychopath?”

He was curious, after all. Lecter would lie and obstruct the information as necessary, and of course he would tell his father and Chilton Will wasn’t a psychopath in light of everything. Appearances to be maintained, the role of a concerned psychiatrist the current costume he donned. But what did he think beyond the seams of the mask?

What did the real Hannibal Lecter think of the real Will Graham?

Lecter paused, savoring the question before offering one of his own. “Do you think I’m a psychopath?” he asked, more curious than his usual arrogance, vying for praise or condemnation as if he could feast on the words Will whittled him down into. Always hungry for Will’s thoughts on him.

He leaned forward on the railing once more, elbow resting on the narrow strip and curling his hand over his chin. “No,” he said, an answer that came with more certainty than seemed appropriate considering he couldn’t explain it. Yet, psychopath didn’t seem right. It didn’t fit the shape of the man before him. He defied classification. Defied the neatly organized lines of diagnoses found within the _DSM_ Will had misplaced only moments early.

A case study, just as much as Will was. Two diseased brains, so unique in their disorders they were alone in a world that could never understand them. He was as alone as Lecter was, and the thought brought with it a wave of something he couldn’t name.

Lecter smiled at the one-word answer. “I don’t think you are either.”

He nodded, tongue tapping against the roof of his mouth. For years he had been told he was a psychopath. That his prognosis was bleak, that the only thing waiting for him in the future was a room fitted with iron bars or padded walls; both a prison of their own sort. He hadn’t realized how heavy the weight of the chain was of the word, the stigma winding over his wrists like handcuffs and once more, he felt free.

It was overwhelming, disorienting. All the freedom and weightlessness. He felt purged, as close to a blank slate as he had ever been. The wrinkles of his identity smoothing out slowly.

Adopting so many personas, he had lost sight of who Will Graham really was.

He turned away once more, messing with the books in a more half-hearted manner than he began. He thought once more of _folie a deux_. Of the two subcategories that sat beneath the term. They were not psychopaths, but there was a madness shared between them all the same. Though whose madness was whose? Was Lecter the parasite to Will’s host, feeding off of him and corrupting him? Will’s brain reflecting and mirroring the man he had allowed himself to become obsessed with? Mirroring his madness so it felt like his own?

Or was their madness similar to begin with? Two equal halves of something indefinable?

He frowned at the spines of the books before him. He didn’t like not knowing who or what he was. At least the term _psychopath_ had been something to hold onto. Not the vast openness of possibilities now spreading before him.

Would he ever feel confident in who he was? Would there ever be quiet in his head?

“Can you come down here, Will?” Lecter asked, startling him from his thoughts. “Or are you still too busy ensuring I have a headache later this evening when I reset my bookshelves?” He scowled at having been caught, glowering down at the man with a pout. “Besides, I have something for you.”

He rose a brow. “What is it?” he asked, dubious of anything he might have to offer.

“A belated Christmas gift,” he answered, eyes gleaming mischievously. Playful.

“Do you actually have something for me or do you just want me to stop destroying your office?”

“I can be motivated by two things, Will,” he said, humor warm in his voice and Will sighed, shoving the book in his hands randomly onto a shelf before turning to the ladder. Lecter was standing beside him when he settled, placing a hand on the small of his back as he lead him to his desk. He moved around it, opening the top drawer and pulling a file folder from within. He held it out to Will without another word.

“What is it?” he asked, though he found the answer when he flipped it open, blinking at the glossy photos held within. Crime scene photos from Sutcliffe’s tableau, sunken into the earth with flowers filling the cavern of his chest. Hollowed out and turned to compost, a garden of life erupting from within the rot.

His breath caught in his throat, and he held the photos close as he wandered through the office, moving closer to the warmth of the fire. He had accepted he wouldn’t be able to see it, letting his vivid imagination and the memories of tearing the man apart be enough to fill his hunger. But now that he held it, could see the features distorted and replaced by blooms- the silhouette of candles that would have burned like a halo had they been kept lit- the things he imagined seemed paltry. Meager and insubstantial, a sliver of the beauty held in his hands, and his lips twitched into a small smile.

There were several photos- different angles and close-ups so he could see the soil between dirty teeth, each velvety petal. And he took his time perusing them all, committing them to memory, eyes fluttering close so he could imprint them in his mind. Could burn into the back of his eyelid.

He flipped the last photo over, blinking at the autopsy report that sat behind it. Scanning the small, eight-point font, laden with technical verbiage that made him slow as he discerned it, unused to the terminology. “You took out his brain?” he asked suddenly, the words barbed in the space between them.

Lecter shrugged, coming to stand behind Will so that he was trapped between the heat of the fire and the warmth peeling from the older man. “He wasn’t going to use it.”

“Did you eat it?” he asked, unable to keep his face from tugging into something twisted. Prion disease ran rampant in brains, and once more he considered the laughing illness and the painful death that would follow. Did Lecter simply not fear death, consider himself immune to something so base and ordinary? Or was it a mockery of death, a flirtation with danger that he would welcome when it came with the same unbridled joy he met most things with?

“No,” Lecter answered. “Prion and Kuru disease is something I’m aware of, as I’m sure you are as well. I disposed of it in another manner.” He reached out, tapping a finger to a line in the autopsy report and WIll blinked at it. He composted it, mixed the brain with the soil that the flowers were potted in, nourishing the blossoms with his death.

“I’m surprised,” Will said, flipping back to the photos once more. Admiring the art his own hand had crafted. “I didn’t take you for the sort to take reasonable measures against death.”

“That’s hardly the matter,” he answered, tone nonplussed by Will’s misinterpretation. “I will accept my fate eagerly when it comes, holding my own twine of fate out for Atropos to snip. Fear has its merits, but in many respects, it’s a useless and hindering emotion. No amount of it can stop the march of time and I would be a fool to think otherwise. I didn’t eat his brain, not because of my own fear but because he isn’t worth it.” Will glanced at him, eyes narrowed from behind the lenses of his glasses, sat low on his nose so the world was refracted in two- one-half clear and concise, the other half blurred and muted.

“You would only eat the brain of someone you were willing to die for,” he said, understanding the words fitted between the spoken ones. Lecter’s lips quirked into a smile, pleased as he always was that Will understood him so well even if the same understanding was beginning to feel like something foul.

When had all of his thoughts started sounding like Lecter’s voice instead of his own?

“Pigs are not worth dying for any more than a burger from a fast-food eatery would be,” he said simply. “If I am to die from my own gluttony, then it will be because the one I attempted to honor dragged me with them, and I will go to them willingly.”

He made it sound romantic, violence and poetry synonymous in his mind and Will disliked that a part of him nodded along with it. That a part of him agreed that there was a beauty in such a death. A reunion in the consumption.

“So have you ever eaten a brain, then?” he asked before he could think better of it. “Has anyone ever been worth it?”

The smile slipped from Lecter’s face, eyes shifting with shadows despite the golden flames dancing before them. It was a strange expression to see, something both open and vulnerable yet empty, distant as if his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere other than the office he stood within. Finally, when Will was opening his mouth to say something else- hoping his voice might be as grounding as Lecter’s was for him- he said, “Yes, once. But that was a long time ago. And this is your therapy session, not mine.”

He turned from Will, striding through the office and sitting at the chair sat behind his desk, legs folding as he turned to face him once more. Will frowned, wondering about the sort of person Lecter deemed worthy of such a threat. The sort of person he would willingly follow into death and no matter how many pieces of the man he had, it seemed he would never see the complete and whole image of him.

Perhaps that was for the best.

“I deleted the messages,” he said, wanting to end the train of his thoughts that was veering to somewhere dark he did not wish to go. Examining things he preferred to keep alone. “And the pictures. There were seven, and all of them have been canceled.” Lecter blinked at him, nodding once. He had no reason to lie- the truth coming out now would only condemn Will, the connection between the Ripper killing Sutcliffe too clear to be ignored. Tied together by a shared crime, and he swallowed, offering a silent apology to all the people who would awake in the basement. Who would be cut and seared, moved from the operation table to a dining table.

It was a decision he made, that he would live with. Though, he imagined, he wouldn’t live all that well.

He thought of the sergeant from the police station, of the straightening in Lecter’s posture and tightening of his jaw. He swallowed thickly, tasting blood on his tongue.

“My dad mentioned something about a referral,” he started.

Lecter moved to a drawer of his desk, reaching within and pulling out a slip of paper. “Yes, a family therapist. Doctor Franco is a colleague of mine whom I respect greatly, and I think you’ll like her. She doesn’t deal in pity, which I know you-”

“No,” Will interrupted, cutting Lecter off abruptly even as the word was so softly spoken. He glanced up at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. “He said...he asked you to prepare a referral for a different psychiatrist. Just in case I wanted it.”

Lecter blinked slowly at him, cat-like almost, as understanding flickered on his face. His eyes softened, lips turning down into a small frown. “You want a different psychiatrist,” he repeated, tasting the words for himself. Tasting the bitter tang of rejection.

“I want...” Will began, glancing around the office, gaze bouncing unsteady at all the sharp corners and angles. A room that held so many sins, stained by the blood that slipped down the drain in Lecter’s basement. “I want to have the chance to figure out who I am. And I can’t do that with you.”

“Because we’re too similar?”

“No,” he said, too quickly and he licked his lips at his own haste. “No, I...that’s the thing. I don’t know which parts of me are me and which are...which are you. I feel like we’ve blurred together in my head and I...I’m tired of becoming what other people want me to be.” A quiet and good boy who did as he was told, a psychopath, a friend to someone who used him. Different roles he assumed because he had to; because he was too young to know better or because he had no other choice. But now there were so many choices spread out before him, new things that tasted like opportunity and he wanted them. He wanted the chance to be something other than what he was told to be.

“What I want you to be, Will, is yourself,” Lecter countered, his words soft despite the cruelty Will was showing him. Almost a plea but Lecter did not lower himself to something as undignified as groveling.

“You want me to be you!” he spat, running a hand through his curls and tossing them messily over the crown of his head. “I’m not stupid, okay? I know this whole time you’ve been thinking about who will be next. Of...of having me hunt with you and kill with you and eat with you. You’re trying to make me in your image and I...I finally have a chance to be my _own_ image.”

Lecter rose his chin, eyes sharpening at the accusation. “So you will be content then? Can you truly look me in the eye and tell me you will be content with the feel of having a man die beneath your hands, to feel the power and relinquish it entirely? That you will not feel that pang of hunger, grow more and more ravenous with each passing day? That you don’t want to hunt and kill and _eat_ with me? Because I was there with you, Will. I saw you drop to your knees and taste the blood you spilled and I saw the look on your face,” he said and Will glanced away, cheeks turning pink as he recalled the moment so vividly in his own mind. The press of his lips to Lecter’s own, breath and blood passed between them as if sharing a sacrament. “You were the truest to yourself you were at that moment. And now you’re blaming me as if I placed the desire to kill in you?”

Will scoffed, searching for the words to say. “I’m not...it’s not _blame_. I know you didn’t and I wanted it and I...I don’t regret it,” he said, the only thing he was certain in. He didn’t regret it, and the memory of the night was something that would sit within the folds of his brain, that he would turn to and think of as if turning to a favorite film. “But I...I don’t want... _this._ I don’t want to be a killer.” He was, already, he knew. But he did not want the plurality of it, did not want to sit at the seat of a graveyard filled with bodies he and he alone entombed. He didn’t want to be Lecter, to surround himself with death and live in a morgue and a grave and find comfort in jokes spoken to an audience that did not understand them.

He wanted to be _normal_.

And now there was finally the chance for it, so close his fingertips could brush against the possibility. Things that seemed unimaginable before were slowly slipping into his brain, considered in a way he never considered them before. Moving from within the small box he had been stuck in for so long, no longer a psychopath or _a danger to himself or others._ A regular classroom with regular students and hands he could hide under the desk instead of splaying where they could be seen. College and all the opportunities it presented, students who wouldn’t know him and a chance to start fresh.

An opportunity for a brain that could be quiet, filled with his thoughts and his thoughts only. All the violent thoughts that twisted him and his dreams becoming still, silent now that the desire had been sated and the one who inspired it most was rotting in the ground.

He didn’t want to feed his anger and hatred anymore. He wanted that wolf to die, weak and famished.

Lecter inhaled, nostrils flaring minutely as he asked, “What _do_ you want then, Will?”

“I want...to forget about you,” he said, swallowing over the words and wincing at the harshness. His fingers gripped the folder still held in his hands, the autopsy report and photos of their crime crinkling in his hold. “I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. I don’t want to think about you anymore.” After a moment, he added, “I don’t want to think like you anymore. The voice in my head is no longer my own.”

“You may have adapted my voice to shirk the burden of your responsibilities, but understand, Will, you are more like me than you are not. You delight in your wickedness and then berate yourself for your delight,” Lecter said, his voice measured as ever but coarser than usual, his accent thick and sloping and Will recognized a few seconds later that it was the pull of sadness. The looming sorrow of his loneliness returning as Will’s presence grew smaller even as he still stood before him. The promise of companionship, of sight and acceptance, ripped from underneath him.

It stung, making yourself vulnerable to another only for them to reject the gift of that vulnerability.

“You delight. I tolerate,” Will said, clinging to something that was getting harder to hold onto. Morality, maybe. “I don’t have your appetite. I wanted to kill Sutcliffe. I did. I will _always_ appreciate you helping me with that. I won’t...turn you in. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, which I don’t.” He frowned at the confession, at the truth behind it. The thought of Lecter behind bars or strewn about a table, chords and machines attached to him as his organs were slowly poisoned, brought with it a wave of emotions he couldn’t fathom. Emotions that tasted like bile in the back of his throat. “But I can’t share your crimes. You told me my dad and I needed a palate cleanser. There are other things I need to cleanse my palate of, and you’re one of them.”

The ghost of an insincere smile settled in the lines of Lecter’s face, lights and shadows severe from the illumination of the fire. “A _trou Normand._ One without a second course to follow, though. And that’s that, then?”

Will pinched his lips. “That’s that.”

He wondered if Lecter would kill him now. If Will had cut his own security by denying the affection Lecter offered him but the thought didn’t inspire the fear or bitter acceptance it once had. If Lecter did kill him, did consume him, it would not be the same way he consumed others, he knew.

And he would be certain to poison him, ensuring even in death that Lecter would follow him when his diseased brain soured in his belly.

He turned away, standing before the fire once more and tossing the file into the flames, watching the paper and cardstock curl and wither in the heat. Black smoke rising from the ink and chemicals, crackling as it fed on the crimes that were born in this room and now died in them.

That was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sad cannibal noises*
> 
> There are two more chapters (technically, one and an epilogue). Next chapter: Will tries to move on several months later, and Hannibal meets with someone who has some interesting thoughts on who the Chesapeake Ripper is.


	31. Trou Normand

**Chapter Thirty: Trou Normand**

_(May, Five Months Later)_

Will gripped the glass of the milkshake, sweat condensing and smearing on his thumb. He chewed the straw between sips, listening to the sound of the plastic crinkling beneath his teeth. It was a slow evening in the diner, the Formica surface of the table sticky between him and his dad, a half-eaten plate of fries placed in the center. Will reached across, grabbing a fry and dipping it into the milkshake, tasting the odd but delicious combination of sweetened cream and salt.

“How was school today?” his dad asked, chin resting in his palm as he leaned on the table.

Will shrugged, shoving more fries into his mouth to delay his answer. It was well enough, he supposed. The novelty of his presence in standard classes had worn off by now, rumors no longer following him like a shadow through the halls of the school that seemed so large compared to the single classroom. The first few weeks had been hell, punctuated by stares and hands cupped around mouths to keep the taunts sealed away.

But it was getting easier. The interest had waned when he proved to be unremarkable- dull in comparison to the rumors that spread. He sat in his classes quietly, passed over often by teachers unsure of how to handle the recent the transplant, and erring on the side of pretending he didn’t exist- which he was perfectly content with. When he failed to live up to the gossip by not attacking another student unprompted, others began to pretend he didn’t exist as well and the ostracization came to a slow, staggering halt. He even had a...not a friend exactly, but someone who didn’t hesitate to sit beside him during lunch in the too-loud cafeteria, chatting politely about their shared classes. Though often they simply sat in silence, eating bites between reading their separate books and it was companionable. Pleasant.

“Fine,” he answered finally, brushing his fingers on a napkin. “My guidance counselor wants me to consider colleges though and maybe try to tour some. She said I’m behind on that.” An exaggeration, he thought. He still had a whole year before him but she insisted that the junior year was the best for visiting colleges so he would be prepared to apply and wouldn’t toe the deadline.

William frowned, lazily rolling a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re fine. It’s not the end of the world if you start in the spring semester or even take a year off either. But if you have any you want to check out we can start visiting some this summer,” he said, glancing at Will with narrowed eyes and a raised brow as he added, “do you have any in mind?”

Will gave a sputtering laugh. “I still haven’t figured out what to go for,” he muttered into the milkshake, chewing the straw once more. He never imagined he would find himself at this point, with an entire life stretched before him and all the possibilities that came with it. His future had always felt amputated, a nebulous construct that would form around him as the universe deigned to do so but now the fate of it had been shoved into his hands for his molding.

And it was difficult to consider the future in all its technicolor promises when he was still pulled into the sepia-tinted past, clinging to him like a monster on his back. A past that lurched to him with more ardor than ever before. His nightmares had grown, became more frequent and vicious. No longer muted and shapeless horrors but concise and vivid things, half-rotted and dismembered monsters without hands clawing through graves and gardens to get to him.

He even, after much denial and stubborn refusal to do so, began sleeping in his sleeping bag to stem the thrashing and sleepwalking that plagued him. A poor man’s straitjacket, he would think wryly as he zippered himself up each night.

His new therapist said it was normal. That he had busted the seal of his denial and with the confrontation came with it the inability to ignore the beasts lurking in the shadows. She said it was a good thing, a starting point to his new life and he had nearly stormed out of the session right then and there, unable to put into words how unfair it all was. He was being haunted by a man he killed; he didn’t want to negotiate with the ghosts, he simply wanted to exorcise them.

Worst still was the morning after, when his dad would ask him if he was okay with tired eyes and he would feel a fresh wave of embarrassment that his nightly fevers and torments were noticed. He, foolishly, he knew, but unable to stop the irrational thoughts, felt as if his dad could see the things that came to him at night. As if his head was so full the memories contorted into nightmares that they spilled out like an ocean and drowned them in its tide.

It had, in some ways, been easier when his dad was ignorant. When there were no averted gazes between them when William came to Will’s room in the middle of the night to gently wake him up, a cup of tea in one hand and a sleeping pill in the other. The awareness of it sitting like an uninvited guest in their home, impossible to ignore yet each of them trying their best to do so.

It was hard to consider the future when his past was dragging talons into the present.

“You wanted to be a veterinarian at one point,” his dad said, pulling Will from his less-than optimistic thoughts. “For a while, actually.”

He blinked at the suggestion, remembering his once fervent desire before it had been abruptly clipped and considered it. “It did seem ideal. Dealing with animals instead of people,” he half-joked, but the notion soured in his stomach as he truly gave thought to it. That it wasn’t a simple matter of petting dogs and cats all day and there would be surgeries. Anatomy to study and clean techniques to learn. Saliva pooled behind his teeth at the thought of cool scalpels in his hands, hand slipping between flesh and muscle and feeling the pulsating organs below.

He wasn’t averse to the thought and the very anticipation of it was why he swallowed, scratched the back of his head as he said, “I don’t think so, though.”

A layover, he told himself. Remnants of pieces of someone _not him_ that sat like spurs in his brain. It was not his mind that turned the vision of aiding animals into the fantasy of torturing those other sorts of animals but the remaining facet of someone else. A shadow slowly fading but still present in the mirrors of his thoughts.

He was _normal_.

His dad hummed, leaning back as the waitress returned with their food, smiling at each of them. Thick plates clinked against the table, a manicured finger pointing to Will’s near-empty milkshake as she asked, “you want another one, hon?”

William answered for him, nodding with a thanks and she was gone once more, the conversation resuming over greasy burgers and thick cuts of onion rings. “You went through a phase once where you wanted to work in the FBI. Criminal justice?”

Will blanched, busying himself by taking a larger than necessary bite of his burger. He recalled that phase as well, an overcorrection when he first understood the thoughts in his mind and his desire to hurt another. As if he could obscure himself within walls built of badges and moral uprightness; _how could he be bad when he was doing so much good?_ It was less a desire to help others and put an end to heinous crimes than it was a desire to absolve him of his own and the thought seemed less than ideal now.

He thought of all the killers he would slip into the mind of, assuming their roles and thoughts in order to find them and knew it was an impossibility. Personalities entangling with his own and muddying the waters of his identity. There was an appeal to having someone else to blame for the cruel and traitorous thoughts twisting in his mind, and it was that appeal that made him shake his head in a jerking motion.

“I doubt I would pass any background checks,” he said, and his dad pinched his lips shut, saying nothing more for several long minutes.

When he finally spoke, it was with eyes bright in humor. “When you were three you wanted to be that dinosaur from _Jurassic Park._ The spitting one with the neck thing-” he pressed his hands against his neck, laying them flat and then pulling them out, fingers spread wide.

Will grinned. “Now _there’s_ an idea. Three year old me really knew what he was doing,” he said in a laugh. The waitress returned with the second milkshake, and the conversation shifted to vague plans for traveling over the summer.

It was a pleasant meal, even if the knife in his hand felt too heavy. Too right.

It would go away in time, he was sure.

~x~

Hours later, Will was sliding into the folds of the sleeping bag, the fabric shifting noisily as he settled in. His hair was still damp from his shower, the smell of lavender rich on his skin. Solutions his therapist had given him, hoping that a slow ease into sleep would quiet his mind. That if he made himself drowsy enough that the same pull to slumber would seep into the monsters in his brains and they would sleep as well.

His attempts were half-hearted at best.

The chamomile tea, made by his dad, would sit on his dresser, full except for three sips before it was forgotten, tepid by the time he remembered it. The lavender shower wash was only sometimes used; too floral for his liking, the smell cloying in his throat. The only advice he seemed to follow without fail was not using a device with a screen before bed- not so much in adherence to a routine and more because he avoided them anyway.

He found a routine that worked best for him. One that didn’t rely on cold and forgotten tea or too fragrant essential oils. One that didn’t entirely silence his thoughts, but offered some comfort despite them. Though the comfort came at a cost, bringing with it an additional torrent of emotions that he tried not to examine too closely. Emotions he sealed within his chest in all the empty space he managed to carve out. It was beginning to feel full again, ribs splintering with the pressure, but he was used to the fullness. Could live with it a little while ago if it meant the moment of reprieve he found at night.

He sighed, inhaling slowly as his eyes closed.

For the first few months that followed, he tried to forget about the night he killed Sutcliffe. Tried to purge it from his memory as if he could reset his brain and start anew. Each time he caught himself falling into the comfort and security and _delight_ of it, he would pull himself sharply into reality with quiet admonishments. Force himself to think of something else. Something safe.

He relented though, too exhausted from the act of keeping it on the periphery of his mind. No one would know; his skull was a fortress made of bone and skin and even if it felt as if his thoughts were seeping out like an ocean they were not. No one could see the things he entertained, the things he turned to for comfort and who would blame him, really? It was why he was removed from Chilton’s program and why he was no longer a psychopath even though he still found himself sinking into his blood-soaked thoughts from time to time. Still thought of the way skin would tear beneath his touch but now he had a reference to use; an understanding that colored his fantasies so they were bright and vivid instead of dull.

But no one suspected anything. He was an abused child finding comfort in the thought of revenge and now they could stem it- solve the true problem instead of abating the symptoms and it was an anchor he clutched to.

These thoughts were just symptoms and they would go away in time.

But for now, they were a sliver of comfort. And he found his best sleep came when he settled into bed and allowed himself to recall the night in its entirety. From the very beginning- hearing the crinkling of Lecter’s plastic suit while thumbing through an anatomy book- to the end. Crawling into Lecter’s bed and letting the weight and warmth opposite him lull him into sleep.

He always had an excellent memory; a recollection so startling it was more a curse than a gift. It tormented him, preserving the touches he despised so much as if fossilizing them. Petrifying the fear and pain so that it never waned in time, suspended in as raw a state as when he first felt it. But it was a gift now, turning his mind into a movie theater that could project the moment on the back of his eyelids.

It wasn’t worth denying how _happy_ he had been; how much wicked pleasure he took in feeling the jaw snap between his two hands, feeling the lips bulge with vomit that Sutcliffe was forced to swallow back when Will refused to move his hand after feeding him. Consuming his own hands not once but twice. He accepted it as righteousness, a delight that no one would fault him for and so he allowed it without guilt. Reveled in it even.

He was less prepared to admit how much that happiness extended to the moment hours later when he awoke briefly to find he had pressed himself against Lecter’s back in his sleep. There had been a second of panic- slumbering brain struggling to settle into the reality that though it was a monster beside him it was not the monster he feared. Panic gave way to humiliation, concerned that Lecter would be annoyed by the intimacy he had not agreed to before Will decided he simply didn’t care. That he was warm and despite all reasoning that said he should feel otherwise, he felt _safe_ with Lecter. Protected in a way that was probably undeserved or overestimated but that he felt all the same.

He fell back to sleep that way, hands tucked under his chin and forehead pressing between shoulder blades, legs slotting behind Lecter’s so they were nestled together.

It was how he often fell asleep now, settling into the same curved position on his side, pressed against the wall that was too stiff and cold but he could pretend it was another body. He tried not to consider it too closely, what it meant that he had felt so secure at that moment to wish for it, chasing that comfort over and over again.

Nighttime was the only time he allowed himself to think about the man, knowing he could blame the lapse in judgment to being tired and his brain unfocused on the edge of sleep. He would wonder then, between the folds of his sleeping bag where it was safe enough to wonder such things, if Lecter thought of him too.

He knew he did, though. He had seen the photos of the grave-made-garden; garden-made-altar. He knew which aspects of the design had been his and what Lecter had added, could sense the adoration and _worship_ that could not be contained in the glossy sheet of the photos. It filled his chest with things he could not name, things that were dynamic and fluttering and yet ached at the same time, something profound that came to him in periods of loneliness.

It was a confession he would only make in moments like this, consciousness ebbing slowly from him- straddling between the dreaming world and wakefulness. That he had never felt more himself, more completed and _certain_ than when he was with Lecter. When blood stained their hands and their lips and the taste of iron filled his mouth. When he was enthralled by the sight of visible lungs expanding with their final breath and delighted under the feeling of not only being seen but so wholly loved.

But these thoughts were only for the dreaming, and he fell asleep with his mind trying to recall the feel of Lecter beside him. A facsimile of that comfort, of that weightless contentedness.

~x~

The lobby was a din of activity, chatter echoing off the open space and rubber soles of sneakers scuffing noisily on the floor. There was music playing somewhere- not over an intercom system but a personal set of speakers behind the front desk. Something synthetic and modern, tuned voices rippling through the slots of the device and Hannibal frowned as he stood beside the desk. He held his phone in his hand, palm tingling with the vibrations and he glanced around before deciding to answer. It was poor etiquette to answer a phone in such a setting, but the general atmosphere was abysmally casual, the veil of professionalism slipping and he stepped aside, voice low as he answered.

“ _Doctor Lecter,”_ Jack Crawford began, voice crackling over the speaker. He was outside, wind whipping across the phone. _“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”_

Hannibal glanced once more at the desk before saying, “I have a few minutes to spare.”

“ _I only need a few minutes,”_ Jack said, and his voice was hardened with determination. _“We have a lead on our Minnesota Shrike case and I was hoping you could consult on it this time around. I don’t want him migrating for the winter again.”_

“Of course, I would be happy to help. What is your lead?”

A moment of hesitation passed, and then Jack sighed. _“Not enough, really. But enough to pull it from cold case. A few new abductions have cropped up. Four, all his exact victim type. No traces to be found of them. It's all his MO, except he’s crossing state lines now. Slowed us down- the first of the abductions happened three months ago and we only just made the connection because of it.”_

Hannibal hummed, pursing his lips in thought. “A forensic countermeasure. He was nearly caught and he’s adapting. Evolving. Are we certain there’s only four?”

“ _No,”_ Jack admitted, his voice a contained snarl with the confession. _“But it’s all we can definitively tie to him. We’re still going through missing persons reports and we’re keeping it to just a few states for now. He’ll try to stay close to home, so he’ll keep his hunting grounds to the states bordering Minnesota. How soon can you be here? We’d like to start building a profile and we could use some help creating a timeline and geographical profile.”_

Hannibal glanced at his watch, considering the question. “Two hours, maybe. I’m running an errand at the moment but it shouldn’t take too long.” He paused, blinking at a painting set on the wall before him. A sterile, mass-produced thing. Nothing spectacular about it and it blended into the room, unassuming. A painting of a lighthouse resting on a cliff, waves crashing against an eroding shore. Clouds blended into the sky, cumulus forms disrupting the blue. “He has a daughter preparing for college. A junior or a senior. They’re touring campuses,” he said, the words met with silence.

“ _What makes you say that?”_ Jack finally asked after a moment, words cautious though lifting in hope that the clue was correct. That they were slowly building a picture of the man who evaded them for too long.

“He’s anticipating her leave from his life. The ache of letting her go is making him desperate to hold on to her for a little while longer. The girls he takes are surrogates for her, and his love for her extends to them as well which is why he returned Elise Nichols back to bed as if she was asleep,” he said, eyes flicking from the painting to the corridor leading away from the lobby, doors beeping noisily as they were unlocked and slid open. Heels clicked on the floor, the clipped sound growing louder and louder as the doctor approached him.

“ _We didn’t find any evidence of assault with Elise-”_

“That isn’t love, Jack. That isn’t why he takes them,” he answered, voice measured despite the irritation that flickered at the bull-headed man. The daughter was probably helping him. A lure to the girls who would replace her; dragged to tour colleges she had no desire to attend if only to find another sacrifice. Borrowing time.

He wouldn’t tell Jack this, though, he decided. Curious about the sort of psyche that would be crafted under such a life; both a victim and an accomplice. Complicit in crimes to spare herself the torment. He would want the opportunity to speak with her, study her- in something more comfortable than the visiting room of a prison. “I’m terribly sorry to end our call so soon, but I have an appointment I need to be getting to. We can discuss this further when I arrive in Quantico.”

Jack grunted in response, mumbling a farewell, his frustration at the abrupt end to the conversation clear. Hannibal hung up with a farewell of his own, feigning warmth as if ignorant to his souring mood, and slipped the phone back into his pocket as he turned to the waiting doctor.

“My apologies, it was a pressing call for work,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, but phone calls aren’t permitted beyond the lobby,” she said, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. She gripped the metal teeth, pulling them back and handing him a visitor’s card which he pinned to his lapel. “You’ve been cleared for the interview, though I suggest you reconsider using one of our interview rooms. The monitoring and security measures are stricter, and we have more control over the environment.”

“I thank you, but it won’t be necessary. It is my personal belief that the interview will be a better and more fruitful experience if we meet on more equal footing, as well as sparing the indignity of the security measures taken,” he responded, offering her a polite smile. _And it was precisely the monitoring he wished to avoid._

She pursed her lips, giving a curt nod. “Alright then. Follow me.”

He followed her down the corridors, the nurse at the front desk opening the door for them as they moved deeper into the hospital; several more locked entryways and an elevator rising several floors above. It brought to mind Dante’s travels through Hell. Of the suffering and punishment undulating around him as he and Virgil moved deeper. Closer to Purgatory and the vast not-enoughness of it all, close enough to see the heavens looming on the horizon but never close enough to touch it. To feel its warmth.

It was a curious thing, Dante’s vision. Where previously people feared Hell as the Devil’s dominion, where his cruelty and wanton hedonism sullied the unhallowed grounds. A direct opposition to God and his holiness, sinful revelry for the most depraved of souls. Yet, according to Dante, even Hell was touched by God’s hands, held in his palm. Angels standing guard to the sinners, the Devil himself sealed within the frozen lake, his own desperate attempts to break free becoming the shackles of his imprisonment.

How could the Devil be to blame for humanity’s faults and failings when he was held hostage in the bowels of the underworld? Perhaps that was God’s greatest work. Making everyone believe his captive was his nemesis, turning him into the scapegoat for all the magnificent and terrible tragedies of the world.

They came to a slow outside a room marked with the number 303, a plastic document holder sitting beside the door with a clipboard of patient information. Warnings and updates to ensure anyone entering was prepared. An orderly stood outside the door and against the opposite wall, hands folded behind his back.

“Here,” she said, turning to Hannibal, blonde ponytail swaying with the motion. “Marcus will be outside if you need anything. When you’re done, knock on the door and he’ll let you out and have them open the doors for you. They can give you a map if you need assistance getting down to the lobby but the nurses at each station can also direct you. Do you have any questions?”

He smiled, letting the tips of his teeth poke through the seams of his lips. “No, I believe I’m all set. Thank you.”

She nodded, returning down the hall as Marcus opened the door for him. He stepped through, hearing it click close behind him as the figure stretched out on the bed turned to him, a wide, uneven grin pulling on his face as he leaped up. Matthew Brown spread his arms wide, voice pitched as he said, “Mister Lecter! Long time no see.”

“Mister Brown,” he greeted, inclining his head as he made his way through the narrow room, pulling the seat out from under the small writing desk and turning it so it faced the bed. He sat down, folding his legs neatly as he added, “It was getting hard to ignore your requests for me to visit.”

The boy chuckled wryly. “I can be persistent when I want to be. Hard to ignore.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal agreed. “Though that doesn’t quite explain why.”

Matthew crossed his legs, reclining leisurely back against the pillow. The room was hospital issue, as standard as they came. Starched white sheets and pillowcase, a thin cotton blanket. The bed was a simple wooden platform, and the mattress a compressed, uncomfortable thing of foam. No springs or metal pieces to be pried free, the wooden base too thick to break apart. Even his clothes were a uniform, light gray sweat pants hung low on his hips with no waistband to tighten and a loose-fitting gray shirt. His socks were blue, the soles fitted with rubber tread marks to provide grip on the linoleum floors.

“You and me have unfinished business, Mister Lecter,” he stated simply, eyes gleaming playfully. Mischievously.

Hannibal tipped his head, eyes glancing at the confined room. Sparse and contained- a small, high window with a metal cage bolted over the glass. “From where I’m sitting, it seems very much finished.”

Matthew gave a huffy laughed. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I got here. What you are and exactly how dirty your hands are,” he said, eyes settling on the hands that curled neatly over the arms of the chair before darting away. He moved sharply, rolling onto his hip and slipping a hand of his own under the mattress.

Hannibal straightened in the seat, preparing for him to pull out a weapon- something manufactured, crafted out of a toothbrush a careless nurse failed to count, perhaps- but when Matthew sat back down, he was holding only some slips of paper in his hand. Articles from newspapers, torn in jagged ridges. He laid the articles out on the mattress before him, smoothing the thin newsprint and pulling his hands back into his lap, letting Hannibal read the headlines.

‘ _A Christmas Ghost Story: Chesapeake Ripper Kills Second in Annual Slaying’_ read one; _‘Silent Night, Bloody Night: Chesapeake Ripper Leaves Final Christmas Gift in Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery'_ read the other.

He blinked, sitting back in the chair. “Making a scrapbook for art therapy?” he asked, the taunt barbed, sloping in condescension. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate, you reading such violent articles. They might give you some ideas.”

“Oh, they’ve given me ideas alright,” he muttered, punctuating the statement with a laugh. “You know, you were pretty boring when I followed you. Right up until the end, that is. But I saw this article-” he said, jabbing a finger against the first. The second kill of the banker with a habit of mismanaging funds whose heart was better suited for the heavy safe chained to his neck. The tip of the finger disappeared as it sunk inward, the paper wrinkling with the motion, distorting the small print. “One of the few places I followed you to was your bank. _This_ bank.”

“A bank with hundreds, if not thousands of members. Baltimore is a large city,” Hannibal reasoned, though he expected Matthew had considered as much. He would indulge him though, perform the lines to his role and play the game. The last few months had been painful in their boredom, mundane in a way that made him restless; reckless even. He wasn’t feeling much himself and there was the long-forgotten spark of something like _excitement_ as he sat opposite Matthew. Waiting for the cards he would play so he could make a deck of his own.

“Yes but _this_ -” Matthew began, pointing to the other article in the same, aggressive manner, “is quite the coincidence, don’t you think? Hundreds- if not thousands- of people may go to this bank, but how many overlap with Doctor Sutcliffe? How many overlap with _my_ Will Graham, a naughty boy who routinely thought about killing the very man the Chesapeake Ripper tore apart?” He glanced at Hannibal, eyes glazed with intrigue, admiration. He licked his lips, slapped them together as he added, “I imagine the center of _that_ Venn diagram is pretty small, don’t you?”

“A coincidence, indeed. Your claims are circumstantial at best,” Hannibal said thoughtfully, words spiked. He bristled, nerves raw in indignation at the claim Matthew felt he had over Will. As if his ownership could extend beyond the four walls of his cell. As if he had any _right_ to someone who would be unrecognizable to him now.

He would not be so quick to lay claim if he had seen the Will Hannibal knew existed behind the meek facade. The one so craftily hidden behind glasses and too-long hair, wearing flannel like armor to appear as soft as possible. He would know better than to think Will was something to possess.

“I never made any claims. Guilty conscience got you defensive?” he asked, his jubilant demeanor teetering towards manic.

“Thinking ahead of the conversation to read the words you are withholding- presumably for a dramatic reveal- is hardly defensive,” Hannibal said, tilting his head back and looking at Matthew from beneath the fan of his lashes. “I’m willing to play whatever game you’d like, but there’s no sense in needlessly drawing out the obvious. You suspect I’m the Chesapeake Ripper.”

One side of his mouth tilted in a crooked grin. “I _know_ you’re the Chesapeake Ripper. And I’m assuming...Will does too. He said you were an eagle, and he went searching for your nest,” he mused. “I bet he was suspicious when you had me arrested. More suspicious, at least. He knew there was something wrong with you beforehand.”

“You have a lot of theories, Mister Brown. I’m struggling to see how they tie together.”

Lips pulled into a slow, lazy smile. He hummed, fingers trailing a design into the thin blanket. He was drawing out the reveal, savoring the taste of the words and accusation he would lob at Hannibal. A feeble clutch at power, the only clutch he could manage. He would let him have it. Let him enjoy the thrum of it before his hands would be cold and light in its absence. “Will _hated_ that doctor. Never told me why, but one time I asked him if he could get away with one kill- no repercussions, no arrests- who would he kill?” He paused, drumming his fingers anxiously on his knee as he glanced out the window; nothing to be seen but the overcast skies, too high to capture the tops of the trees that surrounded the facility, enclosing it from the outside world. “I asked him it a few times, actually. He only answered once though. When he was high. I don’t even know if he remembers it.”

He said nothing else, and Hannibal let the silence sit between them. Heavy and uneven. He was waiting for Hannibal to ask, to prompt him further in the discussion. He would not give him such satisfaction, idly smoothing the seams of his trousers as he waited. Seconds dragged, turning into minutes and when his anxiety had grown too great- his desire to continue playing the game too great- Matthew sighed, feet thumping on the mattress. “Did Will catch you? Did he blackmail you into killing Sutcliffe for him?”

Hannibal shrugged his shoulders. “I did not kill Doctor Sutcliffe.”

Matthew scoffed, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated gesture. “Oh, drop the act, Mister Lecter. We both know you’re the Ripper. There are no recording devices here, and they won’t hear you. And I have no intention of telling anyone,” he sneered, as if he was doing a Hannibal a favor and not simply aware of the fact that his word meant nothing. That his accusation would hold no weight and would seem vindictive, trying to slander the man he failed to attack before he was sent here.

Hannibal lowered his chin, brows furrowing as he said, “I’m not lying, Mister Brown. _I did not kill Doctor Sutcliffe.”_

His realization was slow- he did not grasp the hidden meaning as fluidly as Will did. But he did grasp it, eyes widening and mouth slinging open. He scrambled forward- news articles forgotten and crinkling in the shuffle- and he sat at the end of the bed, leaning forward so there were only a few feet between him and Hannibal. Forcing intimacy between them in his excitement, cheeks tinting pink. He inclined his head, his voice barely above a whisper as he asked, “Will did it?”

Hannibal sniffed, leaning as far back as the chair would allow. “Sometimes unconventional therapy proves to be the most successful,” was all he said, frowning as Matthew’s gaze became glassy, pupils blown wide. His breath was turning into soft pants, the unmistakable musk of arousal seeping from his pores. It was a repulsive scent, cloyingly saccharine and his nostrils flared at it; at the idea that Matthew still felt so entitled to Will.

Matthew swallowed thickly, throat bobbing with the motion. “Were you there? I mean...did you watch it?” It was a vulgar question, and Hannibal refused to answer- directly or otherwise- folding his hands in his lap and hardening his gaze as he stared pointedly at Matthew. He was nonplussed, huffing out a laugh as he added, “I bet he looked hot, covered in blood. Did he let you fuck him after?”

His hands slid back to the arms of the chair, gripping them tightly. The cheap, plastic coating of the fake wood reassuring as his nails dug half-moons into it. It wasn’t often he needed to anchor himself and his control, restraining himself from indulging in something impulsive, something reckless and foolish. And it would certainly be both those things- impossible to explain why the patient he sat alone with in a locked room was dead, neck twisted so fiercely his chin slid over his shoulder. He allowed himself the thought of such vivid fantasies, fingers twitching with the desire to realize them.

Matthew caught sight of the movement, of the tenuous hold of restraint and it only reignited his delight, made the game that much more _fun._ His gaze slanted to the door, where Marcus sat in guard of- knowing the Chesapeake Ripper was unable to kill him but desperately wished he could. “I’m going to take that as a no, then? But I bet you wanted to.”

He would sew his mouth shut, copper wiring strewn across his thin lips. Loose enough that there would be some give, just enough that his lips could separate in a scream and perhaps, with enough encouragement, would scream so harshly he would rip through the metal sutures. Mouth in slivers and drowning on his own blood.

Matthew hummed, leaning back and tilting his head to look at the ceiling, the column of his throat a tempting thing, and Hannibal had to glance away. “Any other unconventional therapy sessions you got planned?” His whisper was conspiratorial, wishing to be allowed in on such a secret. A pact of blood and flesh.

He had no intention of turning Hannibal in because he was more fun this way. Because the game had only just begun and what a shame it would be to end it so soon.

“Will Graham is no longer my patient,” he ground out between teeth, hoping the bitterness that calcified from the rejection wasn’t obvious. Wasn’t the brush that painted the words slipping between them.

Brown eyes widened, blinking twice before Matthew threw his head back and laughed. A hearty, unsteady staccato of a sound that reverberated around the room. Bouncing off the white walls and white standard-issue sheet. Tears were pinched from between his eyes, squeezed tightly in his humor, and he raised a hand, wiping them away with his knuckles. “Oh. Oh my God. That’s- that’s so fucking- how _rich_ ,” he strained between laughs, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Who would have thought he had the _balls_ for that? Gets a serial killer to help him with the dirty work and then dumps him?”

Hannibal bristled at the words, at the mocking tone seeping through Matthew's clear admiration of the new Will he had been deprived of. The Will he could not see or own because he had been trapped within these four walls for several years of treatment.

It was a small consolation; pathetic even if he refused to call it such. But he took comfort in knowing that he had possessed a Will of his own, one that no one else had been privileged enough to see. Untouched by greedy hands and cherished in his own. A Will that Matthew would covet but never see for himself. It made the sting of the humiliation at Matthew’s taunts more tolerable.

His raucous laughter came to a tapered end, and he shook his head loosely from side to side, a few chortles spilling free. “What was it you told me? That I was the best of the worst situation? That Will _tolerated_ me? Bet you feel pretty _tolerated_ now. God, I can’t wait to get my hands on him when I get out of here. If I thought I was pent up _before;_ he’s not leaving the bed for a week when I-” his words came to an abrupt halt when Hannibal stood, brushing out the wrinkles in his suit as he pushed the chair back under the desk. He furrowed his brow. “Where are you going? Things were just getting good.”

“You’re being crude, Mister Brown. My coming here after months of you hounding me was a courtesy and nothing more. I believe my charity has run its course,” he answered, tone measured despite the indignation that sat heavy in his chest. Despite the desire to form a necklace of fingers around Matthew’s throat and finish what Will had started so long ago, fingers mirroring the ghostly remains of his own.

Matthew scoffed, leaning back on his elbows. “Whatever, I guess. We can finish this another time.”

“Perhaps you misunderstood,” Hannibal said, annoyance flickering on his feature. “I have no int-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Matthew interrupted, flicking a wrist through the air in a flourishing dismissal. “Not here, I mean. But eventually, I’ll get out. I’m more perceptive than they know and I’m already learning some of Will’s tricks. You know, pretend to be defenseless? Act the good little special needs boy to get away from suspicion. I’ve been thinking of sneaking in a lisp or a stammer or something. They make people uncomfortable- make them pay less attention. What do you think, Mister Lecter?”

Hannibal considered him a moment. “A stammer would be easier to affect suddenly as it could be seen as a side effect of your medication. But lisps are easier to maintain. Your choice, I suppose.”

Matthew gave a lopsided grin, nodding at the suggestion. “You know, the Iroquois used to eat their enemies to take their strength. Maybe when I get out of here, Will and I will kill and eat you. Then your murders will become ours. And we’ll be the new Chesapeake Rippers. Got any suggestions for recipes? I know you like to cook.”

He chuckled softly, genuine amusement pulling a slim smile on his face. “I have a few I could recommend. I’m too lean for anything too fatty, I’m afraid, but I am in perfect health so my organs would be tender and clean enough. Liver sears well but leans toward gamey and can be tough if one is not used to handling it,” he began, watching with muted satisfaction as Matthew’s grin slipped, eyes narrowed at the blunt suggestion. “Lucky for you, though, Will was a good student and became an excellent cook in his own right. He’s more than familiar and appreciative of those choice cuts of meat.”

His expression was slack-jawed, mouth gaping open unattractively, and for the first time since Hannibal stepped into the room did he seem to understand the shadows that formed the shape of the man before him. The monster.

Horror and admiration swirled in his eyes, a heady cocktail of opposing thoughts. As if he was unsure of whether to lean into the natural repulsion that was so deeply engraved from such a taboo, or appreciation at the facets of a killer so elusive and so unknown. The veil slipping aside and allowing him a rare and precious peek within.

Appreciation for the Will that had grown and flourished and _became_ while he was tucked away from such a sight, deprived of the beauty of it all. That the Will he knew was gone and that there was an entirely new one its place, one he couldn’t wait to meet and get to know.

Hannibal allowed himself a smile that was all teeth, sharp and gleaming in the halogen light, as he stood by the door. He raised a hand, knuckles brushing over the surface below the small window but not quite knocking. “Goodbye, Mister Brown. It is my wish you get the help you need.”

“See you soon, Mister Lecter,” he said, recovering from his earlier shock with eyes that glinted wildly, glassy with the conjured images no doubt pulled into his mind. Lustful and violent in equal measure, fantasizing of what his freedom would bring in a few years. Consummating it in blood and flesh.

Hannibal knocked on the door, watching through the window as Marcus pushed himself from the wall he was leaning against and walked across the corridor. “For your sake, Mister Brown, I sincerely hope you don’t.”

~x~

_(August, Three Months Later)_

The farmhouse sat in the distance, the light of the porch and within several windows illuminating it against the dark velvet sky. Fireflies buzzed around, flickering like a star before diminishing their shine. Hannibal crouched within the tree line, obscured by the woods surrounding the property and unseen by the two men sitting outside. Will- distinguishable at a distance only by the long curls surrounding his head like a halo, curling around the cut of his jaw- sat on the floor of the porch, arm raised with a dog treat pinched between his fingers. A small dog sat beside him, trying to remain still at the command but too eager for the treat to do so.

He must have collected another stray, one that was missing a front paw that Hannibal thought was grotesque but knew Will probably thought was endearing.

William sat on a chair, chatting with Will about something that could not be heard so far away.

He was going to kill him.

Both of them, eventually. But he would kill William first.

Will’s hair sat in a plastic bag in his pocket, beside the knife that folded into the handle. He would press it into William’s dying hand so that the fingers would stiffen in death around it, implicating his son in his murder. A son who would not be found, disappearing with the jeep Hannibal intended to steal and dispose of.

It was a decision he came to impulsively, one that he reasoned away as a necessity. Will was unable to turn him in without turning himself in as well, but there was no promise. No guarantee that he wouldn’t slip and spread their secret to those who would not handle it with care. No guarantee that the guilt wouldn’t grow too great and he would sacrifice his freedom to abate the thing eating away at him. He was a loose thread and he needed to be clipped.

The dog grasped the trick, rolling onto his back and wriggling his three paws in the air. Will cooed, bowing his head down to rub at the soft, exposed belly, curls slipping like a curtain as his face scrunched, accepted the lapping tongue that dragged over his face. He pulled back, lowering the treat to the ground.

Hannibal did not find the crippled mutt endearing but he found Will’s love for it endearing, heart clenching at the sight before him.

Will had become an addiction, one that needed to be cut out and controlled before it grew out of hand. His meticulously built life which he enjoyed despite the boredom and mundane nature of it all was threatened by his presence, the mere existence of him enough to upend it. Not only by the possibility of imprisonment in a cell but imprisonment of his mind. He felt bound, controlled by another and it was an insult to his own carefully held sense of self.

He was an optimist by nature and he awoke each morning with the hope that the loneliness he felt in even greater, more unbearable waves would finally ease. That there would be a case to ignite something within him and he would have something to turn to each night that wasn’t the memory of Will beside him in bed, the smell of sweat and dog-hair no longer the pungent aroma it had once been but something more fond.

He had discovered the identity of the Minnesota Shrike and of his daughter and continued to observe them for some time, sending Jack in the wrong direction to watch them undisturbed. It had been _exciting_ at first, had once even followed them to a college tour in Illinois, and had the privilege of seeing the hunt. Had watched the young girl catch sight of her father’s straying attention and rise on shaky legs, knowing the role she must play. Wondering how long would the act persist; would he continue to hunt when she moved and begun classes? Picking off her classmates and isolating himself until he was caught and his crimes discovered? Or would they continue the ruse, spending weekends and breaks touring more colleges under the guise? Until every girl with brown hair in the surrounding states were running to a salon and leaving it a blonde?

But it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough to fill the emptiness that sat within him. A hunger that was not satiated by food and he knew he needed to kill him. Cut the thread and shackles that held him in this arrested half-life. It had been a mistake to allow himself the vulnerability, the desire to be seen outweighing his self-preservation and now he needed to correct it. Fix the wrinkles in the universe caused by Will's presence.

He slid a hand in his pocket, hands curling over the handle of the knife to steady himself. Remind him of why he was here when he felt his resolve twitch.

William said something that made Will throw his head back and laugh, so open and light and carefree. It made his throat clench, something unfamiliar twinging within him.

He turned his back to the farmhouse, careful to keep his steps quiet as he traipsed over twigs and branches. His decision to leave was as impulsive as his decision to come in the first place. But it felt _right_ and he would not admit to the relief that swelled within him as the farmhouse disappeared behind him. It was foolish of him to think killing Will would end his aching loneliness. He would be dead but not gone, and that thought was even more reprehensible than having him alive and absent from his life. Haunted by him and his own brash actions.

When he first read _The Divine Comedy_ , he had thought how banal a torture it was in Purgatory. That surely the ease of life compared to Hell was enough solace; that no promise of something greater was worse than the threat of something worse. He often imagined he would fair quite well on such a plane, untempted by the kingdom of Heaven looming on the horizon- always seen but never touched. He was a reasonable man who did not waste his time coveting things he could not possess. No paradise was worth wasting away over.

He understood those lost souls better now, he thought as he returned to the side of the road he left his car- a cheap thing he purchased with the intent of dismantling and selling off in a few days. He would still have to do that, he supposed.

The drive back home was silent, his radio turned off instead of pulsing with the tones of Mozart or Beethoven or Debussy. He was home only for a moment, returning to his established alibi in a morose mood, hiding it well behind debonair smiles and greetings. A charity gala for a fad that would tremble and give way to something else; the wealthy never committed to a cause- unconcerned by where their money was being funneled so long as they could write it off on their taxes and spend the evening with bubbling champagne and canapes passed around on silver platters. A party donning the mask of goodwill.

He draped himself against the base of a column, tipping a glass of champagne to his lips and trying not to exude any particular sort of aura. As unassuming as he could manage- neither inviting nor intimidating.

To no avail it seemed, a voice sparking at his side. “It’s a double-fisted kind of bash.”

He glanced at the man standing beside him, boyish-looking despite not being young enough for the term to fit rightly. Dark brown hair pushed into polished waves, narrowed eyes a stormy gray in the low light of the event. There was a scant amount of stubble across his jaw, and when he spoke it was in a crisp accent. “Antony Dimmond. I’d offer a hand, but-”

“It’s a double-fisted kind of bash,” Hannibal supplied, gaze flicking downward to where Antony held two champagne flutes, bringing one up to his lips and downing it in one long gulp.

The other was already set at his lips, preparing to finish it before adding, “I saw you here, earlier. I was disappointed to think you left. Lucky for me, you’ve returned.” His tone was salacious, emboldened by the alcohol as he drank the second glass. He set the two flutes on the passing tray of a nearby waiter, quick to pluck up two more and handing one to Hannibal.

Hannibal glanced down at the liquid, effervescent and bubbling within the slim glass. Already he was envisioning the man writhing below him on the operation table, cries of anguished pulled from his throat. Imagining the toned and taut muscle beneath the skin he would flay, the canvas he could work with. Carve into.

It was too early for another _sounder_ , but he could hardly control when inspiration struck; when a muse presented himself so readily and prettily. And his basement was already prepped, ready for someone who he was beginning to accept would never grace its walls either willingly or by force. He and the drain in the center of the floor were hungry for blood, and Antony's would be sweet from all the champagne. 

He sipped his own glass- slower than Antony had sipped his- his voice a commanding husk as he said, "Lucky for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are three unshakeable truths to the Hannibal fandom:  
> 1.) Hannibal is big Gay for Will  
> 2.) Will gets off on rejecting Hannibal  
> 3.) Antony is here for a good time, not a long time.
> 
> It's still not that kind of party my man.   
> Sorry this took a while to get out. I couldn't decide which version I liked more, and then we had a friend decide to surprise us with a weekend visit. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this penultimate chapter! The epilogue is next!


	32. Epilogue: We Shall Be Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of Murder Baby and Murder Daddy

**Epilogue: We Shall Be Monsters**

June of the next year, a balmy Thursday evening.

The evening began well enough, notably one-note if Hannibal had to categorize it. It did not deviate into something more full-bodied, something of interest or vast entertainment, nor did it spiral into something as unfathomably awful of boredom. He was feeling wistful, pensive, as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed as he listened to the sounds emitting from his stereo. _O Saove Fanciulla_ , a track from _La Boheme_ he found himself turning to with unrelenting frequency, Pavarotti’s tenor a dulcet bellow, a mimicry of something he saw mirrored in himself he would not name. He slunk to the song the way an alcoholic turned to the bottle, knowing even as they grasped hold of it that it was poison, that their system would simultaneously yearn for it even as it destroyed it. A sweet and decadent self-destruction that one was powerless to turn to.

He had a greater appreciation for the song than he had when he first saw a production of the opera when he was a young man in Florence. Arrogant and confident, an appetite for the world that spread before him with all its comforts and hedonistic beauty. The song tasted different then, gnashed between young teeth and behind youthful lips. It tasted like generic elegance; he understood and praised the eloquence of it, adored the resonating notes that beckoned for a love that was not promised. But the weight of it was lost on him- a man who knew loss, yes, but had felt renewed by it. Reborn with the loss into something else, a becoming of the man he was always meant to be.

The loss he knew now was different. It was bitter and unyielding. It was not a becoming, but an undoing.

The track ended, and he blinked at the sudden, clipped silence, the world blurry for a moment.

The evening was sloping, dragging down into something other than interest or boredom. Something dangerous. Something he did not wish to settle into and so he rose, pushing his chair away from his desk and heading towards the small liquor cabinet, considering his options for a moment too long. Nothing seemed to fit- to pair well with evening. He still had to drive home- a short drive, but a drive nonetheless and he would never be so crude or irresponsible to risk the safety of others for a few minutes of soft nothingness. His fingers skipped over the spirits then, landing firmly on a bottle of wine.

White wine would be an opposing force to the evening. It would be bright and young and fresh, tangy with the promise of summer and more balmy days ahead. It would entice him to leave his uncharacteristic wallowing behind, washing the taste of something he would not name from his mouth.

He chose a red instead. Merlot, a familiar brand. One that tasted of currants and blackberries, cloves and cocoa adding depth to it. It tasted like autumn, a time of year when the air was thick with the sweet decay of leaves and dirt and shaking life and brightness from its branches. It was a taste he would savor this evening.

He poured himself a glass- careful not to be too generous- and resettled back in his chair, wafting the wine beneath his nose. Bitter. Sharp. Soft.

He took a sip, letting the flavor rest on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.

The evening would end the way all evenings ended as of late. Neither interesting nor dull but something else entirely. He relented to the ways of it, the design of fate that seemed less favorable to him as of late.

He frowned at his own morose thoughts.

The glass was raised to his lips when the knock sounded from his door, the sound rising above the quiet chamber music that had replaced _La Boheme_ , the invigorating note of Mozart’s _Piano Quartet No. 1 in G minor, k 478_ , the tapering quality directly opposing the trill of the piano as it climbed drastically over the bars.

He blinked, settling his wine down on to a folded tissue and rising. He had no patients, or any other guests to be expected. Alana had taken to visiting him on a whim, as though hoping to reignite whatever had once sat warm and content between them. Something that had lost its novelty before it even began. He scowled at the thought of her inserting herself into an evening that was notably one-note but replaced it with a neutral expression as he opened the door to his waiting room.

Whatever practiced greeting that was sitting on his tongue was forgotten, eyes widening at the sight of Will Graham, twisting to glance at him.

His hair was shorter, tangled curls replaced by tamed and smoothed locks- combed for perhaps the first time in his life. He did not wear the familiar glasses that he enjoyed pushing over his nose when uncomfortable, and his gaze was unheeded as he met Hannibal’s, eyes blue in the light of his office. Always shifting, a constant state of transition. Alchemical.

He smiled softly. “Hello, Doctor Lecter,” he said, the descent from the _c_ to the _t_ sharp in his measured tone. _Soft and sharp._

“Will,” Hannibal returned, glancing at his wristwatch. Six fifty-eight in the evening. His standing appointment time with every therapist he ever had was fast approaching. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?”

His lips curled into a knowing smile, as though Hannibal had just shared a private joke with him. “No, I’m not. Can I come in?”

“Please,” Hannibal said, stepping aside so Will could walk into the office that recalled him instantly. The way a house never forgets the families that lived and celebrated and mourned within it, memories mixed into the concrete of the foundation and nestled between the joists and support beams. He moved into it with ease, the space opening to him and making room to stitch him back into the seams of this reality. He paused between the two chairs, backpack hanging from a strap that sat in one palm.

“I didn’t like the doctor you referred,” he said, his tone accusatory. Brusque in his usual manner of speaking that to others would have been rude but Hannibal found endearing. Like a mongoose, cornered by snakes with nothing but teeth and claws and sheer will to live to its defenses.

Hannibal closed the distance between them some, hands slipping into his pockets. “I’m sorry. Are you here for another referral?” he asked, feeling something he wouldn’t name stir in his chest. Something besides the other something he wouldn’t name, two emotions wrapping around his ribs that felt like indigestion; like a disease that his body was not nearly strong enough to fight.

Will shrugged. “If you’ve got one, I’ll take it.”

He wouldn’t name the two warring emotions that felt so unfamiliar to him, but he had no qualms about naming the one that shot through him at those words, the one that felt like comfort. Anger.

He shifted his weight, as though doing so could displace the bitterness that seeped into his marrow, the unwarranted anger that he felt at Will’s easy presence. As though him stepping back into the office was just another errand he was running, Hannibal sitting somewhere between a trip to the bank and a quick pop into the supermarket on a lined piece of paper that would be crumbled and tossed at the end of the day.

He felt disposable, and the evening was turning into something that was neither interesting nor dull nor the same something it fell into with each rise of the moon. He walked stiffly around his desk, opening a drawer and shuffling through it for his notebook. “Very well. Perhaps you’ll find Doctor Olsen more to your liking-”

His words were amputated by the sound of a chair tugging over the floor, glancing up in time to watch Will settle into his once usual spot opposite him. He pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I haven’t prepared dinner for you, Will.” His words were sharpened blades beneath gift-wrapping. _You’re not wanted here._

“That’s okay. I brought some,” Will said, purposefully ignoring the intent in Hannibal’s words because he was the only one who spoke the same language, who could translate Hannibal without issue. He opened his backpack, pulling from it some glass Tupperware that he settled on the desk delicately, steam pillowing the sides from the heated meal.

Hannibal stilled in his shuffling, closing the drawer after a moment. “You’re not here for a referral,” he said; a statement, not a question.

“I never said I was, just that I would take one if you had it,” he explained, a coy grin sloping on his lips. His facial hair was growing in more evenly, neatly manicured along the stretch of his jaw. “I liked my old therapist.”

Hannibal inhaled, trying to school his features from Will’s careful eyes that could always see too much- would borrow and take from Hannibal whatever emotion pinched into the creases of his skin. He sat down in his chair, grabbing his wine glass and giving it a swirl. Pointedly avoiding eye contact with the young man sitting opposite him. He was not much older than when Hannibal had last seen him, even considering the great strides in development made by the youthful before the plateau of aging left them in suspension. Eighteen now, which was hardly much of a difference from sixteen and nineteen and twenty-one. And yet, he seemed to have grown in leaps and bounds, several years for each month that sat between here and _then_.

Confidence suited him, Hannibal decided. _Happiness_ suited him.

“I thought we had an understanding that there was nothing more you could glean from my particular brand of therapy,” Hannibal said after taking a sip of wine, his mouth warm with the taste of autumn. “That you were ready to grow in a path that I was not welcomed to accompany you down.”

He let his gaze settle back on Will, knowing his pointed aversion would look too much like cowardice and not the bitterness it was.

Will’s grin slipped, blinking twice at Hannibal as his own gaze faltered, slid to the décor around them. They landed on the statue of the stag, the one he used to fondle with great care when avoiding a difficult subject. “I decided to turn back when I realized I was happiest on the other one,” he said, twisting back to glance, not at Hannibal, but on the Tupperware sitting between them. “It will get cold if we wait too long.”

Hannibal watched as those slender hands- capable of such wondrous violence; such soft touches- reached for the containers, clipping the folded seal up and removing the lid.

He smiled, despite himself, bitterness leaving him just as quickly as it came. Replaced by something kinder, something proud and smug and bordering on _hope_. Like a cat watching its owner eat the half-dead mouse left at its feet with proper appreciation.

“Chicken parmigiana,” Hannibal answered, taking a proffered set of silverware. “Did you make it yourself?” He used the fork to turn the piece of meat over, the crisp breading a perfect golden brown, the marinara a robust and dark red. Cheese clung to the dish, to the tines of his fork as he pulled a bite from the serving. So tender it did not need a knife.

“Yes. An original recipe even,” he said, his own fork still sitting on the desk as he waited with folded hands for Hannibal to take the first bite.

He obliged.

It was delicious. The sauce was beautiful, sharp acidity balanced with sweetness, a brightness to the crisp breading- seasoned with parsley and basil and the texture of the mozzarella was not quite right, too thick and not smooth enough. He imagined Will making his own cheese, referencing a website on his phone screen that was dirty where thoughtless hands smeared cream against it. The meat was perfectly cooked, tender and moist and-

“It doesn’t taste like chicken,” Hannibal said, a knowing smirk curling on his lips.

Will’s mouth twitched, resisting the pull of a smile. “What does it taste like?”

“Pork, but not as sweet. Not like chicken,” Hannibal mused, watching as Will shrugged and picked up his fork.

“Maybe our butchers buy from the same farm,” he muttered, taking a bite of his own.

Always a surprise, he thought with utter delight, taking a few more bites. Decadent. “Or have you slaughtered the pig yourself?” he asked, coyly.

“It’s not a pig,” Will said simply.

Hannibal furrowed his brow. “Oh?”

Will hummed noncommittally. “You know, I never really gave much thought to my future,” he said, chewing thoughtfully with the subject change. Hannibal was patient, saying nothing as he derailed the conversation. “I didn’t...I guess I didn’t care. It seemed pointless. I felt like no matter what I was going to be shuffled to the same end. Sitting in a padded cell. Maybe the same one Abel Gideon was in when he thought about how he was going to gut Chilton. Wouldn’t that be poetic?” He paused, laughing wryly on his own crooked humor. “It wouldn’t have even been the worst option- even prisoners can deny treatment from outside doctors.”

The mention of the man made Hannibal flinch, the ghost of something from another life- one that did not deserve to be summoned into existence. He was not the sort to linger on his work- admiring his masterpieces with distant adoration, but always looking for the next canvas to create upon. There was always work to be done, a creation sitting just beyond his grasp that would be more beautiful than any of its predecessors.

But Sutcliffe lingered. Like a bad taste that sat on his teeth, his tongue passing over it too often and souring his appetite. He recognized it as hatred, something so foul and unbecoming he had only truly felt it once when he was a young boy, chewing on the bones of an even younger girl as though doing so would settle her memory within him, an absorption that would lend itself to something like immortality. He did not hate others- even the most repugnant inspired some degree of amusement, a purpose to serve that he could indulge in.

But he hated Sutcliffe.

Hated that Will considered the cells of a prison met to protect him from the world suitable enough a future. Because the very same bars would protect him at the very least.

“Have you been feeling more optimistic as of late?” Hannibal asked, wishing to change the topic to something else. Something that wouldn’t ruin the moment between them. Coy and intriguing. Soft and sharp.

Will nodded. “I have. Got my license, finally. Been touring colleges with my dad if he isn’t busy.”

“A higher education is important, not only for career pursuits but for personal growth as well. One should never stop learning. Have you found any you like?” he asked, wondering if this dinner was Will’s parting gesture. A goodbye that would sting worse than the first. He tried not to let the hurt flicker on his face.

“Not really. I got distracted at the last one. Ball State University...there was this girl there, taking the tour with her dad,” he smiled wistfully, the pained grimace that seemed so natural yet so out of place now on this new and foreign Will. He already regretted not having the opportunity to get to know him. “Plain but pretty. She wasn’t interested in me though, too distracted by other plain but pretty girls.”

Hannibal frowned, head tilting to the side at Will’s words. They were...playful. Demure. Wrapping around the other words he would not voice. A language of his own.

He found the translation when Will glanced at him from beneath his lashes, a forkful of food hovering just before his mouth. “Her dad was pretty distracted by them as well.”

_Ah._

He glanced down to the food before him, realization dawning with a rushing fluidity. Like the current of a stream. “Ball State University...considering moving to Indiana?”

Will shook his head. “Wasn’t a fan of the campus. Plus, I heard about this gruesome murder the other day that happened only five miles from the school. Hardly seems safe.”

Hannibal bit down his laugh, feigning muted curiosity, the one someone has when something particularly morbid has happened. “I believe I know the one you’re speaking of. There was a TattleCrime article on it...where a man traveling with his daughter was found impaled on a head of antlers. The details were sparse but I believe the report was that he was still alive during the mutilation.”

“That’s the one,” Will said, a shy sort of pride warming his eyes. Pleased, seemingly, that Hannibal had seen his illusion.

Delighted to hear the applause from a normally too-silent audience.

“I’m glad you reconsidered moving then. From what I understand, the man was also missing the skin over his torso. Heinous work of a truly depraved individual. Thankfully, his daughter was out at a University event at the time and managed to escape unscathed,” Hannibal teased, taking a bigger than strictly necessary bite of his food. _Tender._ A fatty cut of meat.

Not like chicken.

Will hummed. “Lucky for me, I was at the same event where it was perfectly safe. Even got a parking ticket when my meter ran up,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

_Manufactured reality_.

Hannibal smiled, wide and unrestrained now. There was a part of him, a voyeuristic part of him that stirred at Will’s carefully spoken half-truths, jealous to have been deprived of such a show. A beautiful design unfolding before him, settling onto a crown of antlers like a coronation wreath. He would give anything to have seen it, to have witnessed the reckoning doled out by the young man that was split in twain by a desire for violence and a gift of understanding. Soft and sharp.

He felt starved, deprived of a banquet he had not been given an invitation to attend.

“I must admit to my surprise, Will,” he said, taking a sip of wine between bites of his food and words. It did not pair well with the dish, but the taste of autumn was too riveting to deny. “Last we spoke, you were not a fan of my preferred diet. With one notable exception.”

“I’m not a cannibal,” Will said, not in defense. Just simply. “It’s only cannibalism if we’re equals I thought.”

Hannibal could not resist the smile that tilted his lips. His words sounded so delectable on Will’s tongue. “But you are, Will. You see, my preferred taste is pigs,” he said, gesturing down to the remaining slab of parmigiana before him with his fork as he added, “you, Will, have a taste for fellow hawks.”

Will blinked, mouth pulling into a small smile. “Wouldn’t that just make me an eagle?”

“ _It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.”_

_-Mary Shelley, Frankenstein_

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you all for indulging me in this little venture. I’m so grateful to everyone taking the time to read, kudos, and comment. It meant so much to me, and it was wonderful to see all your thoughts and kind words through each chapter. I enjoyed writing this so much and hope you all enjoyed reading it as well. 
> 
> I enjoyed writing these dumb Murder Babes so much that I've already got a whole-ass sequel in the works because I have zero impulse control (I'm not sure when I'll start posting, as I should probably try to have a more cohesive plan for how it will end for once in my life instead of coming up with it as I go). The sequel will focus on the development of their romantic (and sexual 👀👀😏😏) relationship while they get up to murder husband shenanigans. Though it won't be as heavy as this fic, there will still be some elements of tough stuff as Will copes with the long term repercussions of it. 
> 
> Also, for those interested, I do have a Tumblr that I post previews and sneak peeks of to my writing, as well as fulfill prompts when I'm not being a gremlin: reneehartblog
> 
> Thank you all again! I have so much love and appreciation for you all!

**Author's Note:**

> I've fallen into the Hannibal fandom headfirst and I seem to have no signs of slowing down. Apologies.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this little opening! Let me know your thoughts so far.


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